THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


.2  - 


FEET  OF  CLAY 


BY 

AMELIA  E.  BARR 

AUTHOR  OF  "JAN  VEDDER'S  WIFE,  "  THE  BOW  OF  ORANGE 
RIBBON,"    "REMEMBER  THE  ALAMO,"   ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1889, 

BY 
DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY. 

All  right '  reserved. 


PS 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

CHAPTER  I.— BELLA  CLUCAS,  i 

CHAPTER  II. — WANTED,  A  THOUSAND  POUNDS,  23 

CHAPTER  III.— THE  COTTAGE  IN  GLEN  MELLISH,  41 

CHAPTER  IV. — BELLA'S  OPINION,   -  63 

CHAPTER  V.— SHADOWS  OF  COMING  EVENTS,    -  83 

CHAPTER  VI.— FEET  OF  CLAY,    -  102 

CHAPTER  VII.— AN  UNWELCOME  VISITOR,     -  125 

CHAPTER  VIII. — ONE  KIND  OF  DEATH,     -       -  142 

CHAPTER  IX.— DRIFTING,       -       -       -       -  158 

CHAPTER  X.— THE  HEART  OF  BELLA  CLUCAS,  -  180 

CHAPTER  XI. — MRS.  PENNINGTON'S  PERPLEXITY,  204 

CHAPTER  XII.— THE  SWORD  OF  DAMOCLES,  -  225 

CHAPTER  XIII. — LOVE  AND  DEATH,  -       -       -  246 

CHAPTER  XIV.— YOUTH  ON  THE  PROW,  275 

CHAPTER  XV. — "  LIKE  AS  A  FATHER,"      -       -  301 

CHAPTER  XVI.— A  SACRIFICE  ACCEPTED,      -  324 

CHAPTER  XVII.— SUNRISE,  -----  349 


FEET  OF  CLAY. 

CHAPTER  I. 

BELLA  C  LUCAS. 

"  Where  the  wide  heath  in  purple  pride  extends, 
And  scattered  gorse  its  golden  lustre  lends, 
Closed  in  a  green  recess,  unenvied  lot, 
The  blue  smoke  rises  from  the  turf-built  cot. 

"  —  Point  me  out  a  place, 
Wherever  man  has  made  himself  a  home, 
And  there  I  find  the  story  of  our  race  : 
What  matters  the  degree?    the  kind  I  trace." 


most  beautiful  feature  of  a  Manx 
X  landscape  is  the  lovely  glen  which  runs 
inland  from  the  rocky  beaches.  In  all  coun 
tries  one  may  dream  of  such  valleys  ;  in  the 
Isle  of  Man  it  is  permitted  that  mortals  shall 
find  in  reality  the  intensely  green  verdure,  the 
wonderful  flowers,  the  clear  air,  the  charmed 
stillness  of  their  visions  ;  a  stillness  only 
intensified  by  the  everlasting  murmur  of  the 


4  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

ocean,  which  vibrates  through  them  like  the 
pulse  of  life. 

Nearly  half  a  century  ago  in  one  of  these 
lovely,  lonely  places  stood  the  cottage  of 
Rutliie  Clucas.  Like  all  Manx  cottages  it 
was  built  of  unhewn  stones  roughly  mortared 
together,  and  whitewashed.  But  the  scarlet 
fuchsia  clambered  all  over  the  walls,  and 
hedged  in  a  pretty  garden,  where  the  delicate 
veronica  grew  to  luxuriant  bushes,  and  the 
lily-like  amaryllis  and  the  white  odorous  ever 
lastings  and  the  fragrant  rosemary  poured 
lavishly  their  delightful  incense. 

The  interior  of  the  cottage  was  that  of  the 
Manx  fisher-farmer.  On  the  wide  hearth  there 
was  a  fire  of  peats,  and  up  the  chimney  a  huge 
chain  with  hooks  on  which  to  hang  the  pans 
above  the  low  fire.  The  deal  tables  and 
chairs  and  the  three-legged  stools  were 
scrubbed  white  as  ivory.  The  equally  white 
dresser  was  gay  with  cups,  and  jugs,  and  basins 
in  bewildering  quantity  and  of  the  gaudiest 
colors.  Bits  of  patchwork  and  pots  of  gera 
nium  and  a  clean  white  curtain  at  the  win 
dow  gave  freshness  to  the  room.  The  wide 
mantel-shelf  was  filled  with  ocean  treasures, 


SELL  A   CLUCAS.  3 

marvellous  things  brought  up  in  the  nets  from 
the  deep-sea  fishing,  or  from  strange  countries 
by  adventurous  sailors.  On  the  walls  were 
hung  some  good  trout  lines,  and  the  wool- 
carders,  and  a  miniature  ship  full-rigged  in  a 
glass  case.  In  one  corner  there  was  a  small 
round  table,and  upon  it  a  Holy  Bible  and  the 
Book  of  Common  Prayer.  In  another  corner 
the  spinning  wheel,  and  above  it  a  little  shelf 
holding  Ruthie's  almanacs,  and  his  rarely  used 
spectacles. 

At  the  open  door  Ruthie's  only  daughter 
Bella  stood  watching  the  sun  set  behind  the 
rugged  masses  of  Spanish  Head.  Her  face 
had  a  dreamy  and  pensive  expression,  but 
then  who  with  a  soul  ever  watched  the  daily 
sun  going  down  over  the  sea  without  a  feeling 
of  melancholy  ?  The  glory  from  the  horizon 
enveloped  her  in  its  rose  and  violet  haze.  It 
turned  her  blue  flannel  skirt  into  something 
royal,  and  her  reddish-brown  hair  into  an  aure 
ola  of  gold  red  radiance. 

Few  people  thought  her  face  beautiful,  but 
it  was  neither  vulgar  nor  commonplace;  for 
she  had  a  forehead  which  caught  the  light 
and  threw  it  back,  and  large  blue  eyes  glinting 


4  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

and  intense.  Besides,  there  was  around  her 
the  charm  of  youth  and  of  perfect  health,  and 
her  tall,  supple  figure  embodied  the  idea  of 
womanly  strength  and  courage.  She  looked 
like  a  flower  which  had  been  hid  away  in  some 
sweet  secret  place,  which  the  wind  had  not 
blown  nor  the  sun  parched. 

Yet  this  was  hardly  the  case.  Bella  knew 
the  stress  of  seasons  when  the  '  take  '  had 
been  small  and  her  father  was  gloomy  and  her 
mother  irritable  or  anxious.  She  had  felt 
keenly  the  small  disappointments  flowing  from 
such  circumstances.  One  of  her  brothers  had 
been  wild  and  brought  anger  and  weeping 
to  the  hearthstone  many  a  time.  She  had 
seen  death  come  twice  by  way  of  the  sea. 
The  little  domestic  frets,  the  daily  inabilities 
that  make  so  much  of  a  household  unhap- 
piness  dropped  their  bitterness  and  cast  their 
shadows  in  her  lonely  home.  Its  humble  un 
hewn  walls  had  seen  everything  that  makes 
up  life ;  the  striving,  the  doing,  the  suffering, 
the  rejoicing  of  humanity. 

But  she  had  the  dew  of  her  youth.  Trouble 
had  been  like  the  shadow  of  a  bird's  wing. 
It  was  there,  it  was  gone.  When  she  turned 


&ELLA    CLUCAS.  $ 

her  face  to  the  setting  sun  it  was  the  face  of  a 
girl  who  trusted  all  her  own  hopes,  and  ex 
pected  happiness  from  day  to  day. 

When  she  re-entered  the  cottage  her  mother 
was  sitting  by  the  window  knitting  a  stocking. 
She  was  a  pleasant-looking  woman  of  fifty 
years,  with  ruddy  cheeks  and  bright  piercing 
eyes,  and  black  curly  hair  put  back  neatly 
under  a  white  linen  cap.  Her  home-spun 
dress,  her  little  shoulder-shawl,  her  clean 
checked  apron,  her  fingers  busy  with  the  glint 
ing,  clicking  needles  made  her  an  agreeable  and 
homelike  picture,  as  she  lifted  her  eyes  to 
meet  her  daughter's  smile. 

"  Bella,  ma  chree  !  Why  aren't  you  to  The 
House  these  two  days?" 

"  I  was  waiting  for  Miss  Harriet  to  be  corn- 
in'  here.  Were  you  not  knowin,'  mother,  that 
Mr.  George  is  home  again?  What  for  would 
I  be  intrudin'  then,  and  me  not  knowin'  if  I 
would  be  welcome,  or  not  welcome  ?  " 

."  I  heard  the  lady  axin'  you." 

"  Just  jokin'  like." 

"  I  wouldn'  wonder!  But  before  Mr.  George 
went  away  it  was  great  friends  you  were,  and 
nobody  suitin'  him  like  you." 


0  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

"  Mayve !  I  was  thirteen  years  old  then — 
a  girl  and  no  more.  Things  are  different 
when  one  is  eighteen,  I  think." 

"  Of  coorse,  of  coorse !  I  was  forgettin' 
entirely.  He'll  be  changed  too :  I  never 
thought  much  of  him.  A  poor  heart  he  had, 
and  the  selfish  he  was  !  The  selfish  and  ob 
stinate — aw,  astonishin' !  " 

"  Mayve  you  didn'  know  him,  mother." 

"  Mayve  I  don't  know  my  right  hand  from 
my  left  hand.  Mayve  it's  hard  to  know  them 
that  never  thinks  a  straight  thought,  or  takes 
a  straight  road.  Didn'  know  him  !  And  him 
comin'  here  day  after  day,  and  chattin'  and 
chattin',  and  me  that  taken  with  his  smooth 
tongue  in  spite  of  myself,  and  the  sense  I  have." 

"  It's  five  years  since,  mother." 

"  Of  coorse  !  He'll  be  five  years  better,  or 
worse.  That's  the  abslit  truth.  But  what  for 
will  you  be  taking  him  into  your  count  ?  Put 
him  neither  here  nor  there  in  your  life,  Bella. 
He's  no  more  to  you  than  a  new  chair  or  table 
in  his  mother's  house.  Miss  Harriet  is  dif- 
feren',  a  poor  girl  can  take  love  from  a  rich 
woman,  when  love  from  a  rich  man  might 
mean  destruction  and  damnation  to  her." 


BELLA    CLUCAS.  ^ 

"  Mother,  what  are  you  talking  with  the 
like  of  them  words  for?" 

"  When  it's  a  warnin'  it's  the  plainest  words 
a  mother  can  find  that  she's  wanting.  It  is 
all  on  the  look  and  the  feel  you  have  been  the 
last  two  days,  Bella.  Aw,  a  mother  isn'  blind. 
And  it's  too  much  you're  makin'  of  the  comin' 
back  of  him  that's  nothing  to  you.  The  still 
you  were,  and  the  sweet,  and  all  your  body  Itst- 
enin'  for  the  steps  and  the  voice  that  didn'  come. 
And  bless  my  soul  !  Why  should  they  come  ?  " 

"  What  are  you  wanting  me  to  do,  mother?" 

"  Chut !  Do  what  you  would  have  done 
if  Mr.  George  was  still  in  Anglan.  There  are 
the  plover's  eggs  that  the  young  ladies  think 
diamonds  of.  Three  days  since  the  wet,  nor 
the  far,  nor  this  nor  the  other,  would  have 
stayed  you  with  them.  The  sun  has  set,  but 
there  is  two  hours  before  the  dim  ;  take  the  eggs 
and  go  to  The  House,  and  be  no  more  mindin' 
the  young  gentleman  than  if  he  wasn'  there. 
And  lay  high  if  he  speaks  to  you.  I  know  him  ! 
The  nice  he'll  be,  and  the  polite  too,  and  are 
you  mindin'  of  this,  Bella,  and  hav'  you  for 
gotten  the  other,  and  carryin'  on  that  pleasin' ; 
but  all  as  one,  the  divil  in  his  heart  and 


8  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

words.  I  know  this  kind  of  the  quality  ;  the 
like  is  at  them!  " 

"  You're  foolish,  mother,  though.  Do  you 
think  I'll  be  listenin'  to  what  I  shouldn'  hear? 
Do  you  think,  then,  that  Miss  Harriet  will  be 
lettin'  me  listen?" 

"  Aw,  my  lass,  you  might  be  took  on  the 
sudden.  But  you'll  be  safe  now,  for  you're 
warned  afore,  and  the  guard  set,  that  is,  if 
you'll  be  mindin'  the  words  I  have  said  in  your 
ear,  and  the  words  that  you'll  hear  in  your 
own  breast." 

Bella  had  been  longing  to  go  to  The  House 
for  two  days,  and  she  was  glad  when  her 
mother's  advice  fitted  so  completely  with  her 
own  inclination.  That  it  was  hampered  by 
her  restrictions  and  darkened  by  her  evil  fore 
bodings  did  not  not  trouble  her  very  much. 
She  wished  George  had  not  been  so  much  mis 
understood  ;  she  felt  sure  that  now  he  had  be 
come  a  man  his  maturer  virtues  would  bury 
his  youthful  faults.  She  told  herself  that  no 
one  knew  him  as  she  did  ;  for  girls  of  thirteen 
have  usually  a  great  opinion  of  their  own  wis 
dom  and  penetration,  and  Bella  at  eighteen 
clung  to  her  ideal  lover  of  five  years  ago. 


BELLA    CLUCAS.  9 

She  would  have  liked  to  have  put  on  her 
muslin  frock  and  best  bonnet,  but  her  mother's 
face  and  directions  to  hurry  convinced  her 
that  any  attempt  to  make  herself  more  at 
tractive  than  usual  would  be  useless.  But 
there  is  a  wonderful  satisfaction  in  youth, 
and  as  she  walked  rapidly  forward  she  soon 
regained  all  her  ordinary  composure.  The 
valley  narrowed  as  she  ascended  it,  and  finally 
by  a  mere  foot-path  emerged  upon  the  hill 
top. 

The  country  here  was  bleak  and  open. 
There  were  no  trees,  and  The  House  stood 
about  half  a  mile  from  the  cliff  boldly  facing 
the  sea,  and  in  a  great  measure  buffeted  by 
every  wind  which  blew.  It  was  surrounded, 
however,  by  a  spacious  enclosure,  and  within 
it  the  laburnums  were  dropping  flowers  of 
gold,  and  the  fuchsia  hedges  were  a  glorious 
wonder  of  scarlet  and  purple  bells.  The  subtle 
woody  smell  of  wall-flowers  enthralled  the 
senses,  white  lilies  lighted  up  the  pansy  beds, 
and  honeysuckle,  ivy,  and  clematis  clambered 
over  the  gray  stone  walls  of  the  dwelling,  It 
was  a  large,  square  house  of  the  Georgian  pe 
riod  with  large  square  rooms  and  a  wide  cen- 


10  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

tral  hall.  About  it  there  was  nothing  dim  or 
romantic  or  mysterious.  It  might  have  been 
built  by  a  man  of  the  most  mathematical  mind, 
whose  highest  rule  of  life  was  that  two  and  two 
make  four. 

Bella  had  been  used  to  go  directly  through 
the  garden  to  Miss  Harriet's  room,  and  she  fol 
lowed  her  usual  course.  In  spite  of  the  long, 
long  twilight  of  the  island  it  was  getting  a 
little  dusky  among  the  shrubbery,  and  in  the 
lower  rooms  of  the  house,  and  Miss  Harriet's 
parlor  was  one  of  them.  But  very  often  at 
that  hour  she  was  with  her  mother  in  the  more 
public  room,  and  when  so,  Bella's  approach  was 
always  seen,  and  she  was  met  by  one  of  the 
ladies.  They  were  both  fond  of  her,  and 
Bella's  visits  brought  to  them  a  slight  change, 
a  sense  of  human  fellowship  which  was  very 
welcome. 

This  night  the  garden  was  deserted.  Neither 
presence  nor  sound  stirred  its  solitude.  Bella 
was  disappointed.  She  felt  as  if  Mr.  George 
would  certainly  be  smoking  in  its  sweet  alleys. 
She  had  hoped  to  see  him  first  of  all  alone.  If 
he  had  forgotten  her  the  shock  would  be  more 
easily  borne ;  if  he  had  not  forgotten,  the 


BELLA    CLUCAS.  It 

joy  would  be  sweeter  if  it  were  entirely 
her  own. 

Her  heart  fell  as  she  entered  the  silent  hall. 
The  butler,  a  very  aged  man,  was  shuffling 
through  it,  and  he  answered  her  good-night 
with  that  apathy  to  youth  and  beauty  which 
dull  old  men  feel.  "  My  mistress  is  sick,"  he 
said  querulously,  "  and  Miss  Harriet  is  in 
her  own  sitting-room.  What  have  you  got  ? 
Plover's  eggs?  Aw  dear  !  They're  as  unlucky 
as  can  be !  And  the  ladies  set  on  eatin'  them. 
Women!  Curious  folk !  Yes." 

"  I  never  heard  that  plover's  eggs  were  un 
lucky,  John  Quayle." 

"You  are  young  and  iggrint.  Unlucky! 
mortal  unlucky  to  steal  plover's  eggs." 

The  incident  trifling  as  it  was  affected  her 
unpleasantly.  Why  hadn't  John  Quayle  told 
her  so  before  ?  He  had  taken  plover's  eggs 
frequently  from  her.  Why?  Who  can  tell? 
How  often  all  of  us  carry  words  in  our  hearts 
for  years,  and  then,  in  some  moment  when  we 
are  scarce  responsible  for  the  act,  fling  them 
like  a  fate  at  the  consciousness  of  some  one 
whom  we  have  hardly  considered,  and  who 
seems  to  have  no  connection  with  them. 


1 2  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

Bella  placed  the  unlucky  gift  on  a  table,  and 
then  went  empty-handed  to  Miss  Harriet's 
room.  Her  light  tap  on  the  door  did  not  bring 
the  ready  "  Come  in,  Bella,"  which  was  its  usual 
result.  There  was  a  minute's  pause  and  the 
sound  of  hurried,  earnest  speaking  before  the 
lady  uttered  the  customary  permission.  Bella 
too  made  a  little  pause.  That  also  was  un 
usual,  and  she  entered  suffused  with  that  veiy 
consciousness  which  she  had  been  striving  all 
the  way  to  suppress. 

Captain  Pennington  stood  by  the  window 
absorbed  in  the  abstraction  of  a  cigar  from  its 
case  of  leather  and  silver.  He  wore  one  of  the 
handsomest  of  cavalry  uniforms,  and  he  looked 
in  it,  ah !  Bella  thought  he  looked  in  it  the 
most  beautiful  and  heroic  of  human  beings  ! 
He  did  not  speak  a  word  to  her.  He  did  not 
look  at  her  at  all.  "  I  am  going  out  to  smoke, 
Harriet,"  he  said,  and  with  the  words  he  saun 
tered  out  of  the  room. 

The  two  girls  stood  a  moment  facing  each 
other.  Then  Miss  Pennington  with  a  swift 
movement  took  Bella's  hands  in  her  own,  and 
said  almost  angrily  :  "  Why  did  you  come, 
Bella  ?  Why  did  you  come  ?  Don't  you  see 


BELLA    CLUCAS.  13 

that  you  have  taken  the  first  step  ?  It  is  easy 
now  for  him  to  take  the  second." 

"  The  why  ?  There  was  the  plover's  eggs 
that  Mrs.  Pennington  likes." 

"  Chut !  You  wanted  to  see  George,  you 
know  you  did.  It  was  not  right  nor  kind  of 
you,  Bella.  I  was  coming  to  see  you  to-morrow 
about  George.  You  might  have  waited,  you 
might  have  trusted  me." 

"  My  mother  was  sayin'  to  me,  '  Take  the 
eggs' — and  I  said,  what  for  would  I  take 
them?" 

"  The  eggs  !  the  eggs  !  A  poor  excuse, 
Bella.  You  came  because  you  wanted  to 
come." 

"  What  for  would  I  go  to  tell  you  lies  ?  My 
mother  was  saying  take  the  eggs,  and  never  be 
mindin'  if  Mr.  George  is  at  home  or  in  Anglan. 
What  is  Mr.  George  to  the  like  of  you  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  she  thought  you  should  face  temp 
tation  and  make  believe  it  was  not  there. 
Women  can't  do  that,  Bella  ;  it  is  better  for 
them  to  keep  out  of  sight  and  hearing  of 
danger." 

"The  cross  you  are  to-night,  and  the  proud, 
Miss  Harriet !  But  I'll  go  home,  of  course, 


14  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

and  it's  no  more  I'll  be  comin'  here,  till  you 
be  sendin'  for  me." 

"  I  am  not  cross  and  proud,  Bella,  but  there 
are  troubles  and  reasons  in  all  families  that 
are  not  to  be  told  out  of  them.  My  mother  is 
sick  with  sorrow,  and  my  own  heart  is  aching. 
If  I  should  see  wrong  coming  to  you  through 
George  Pennington,  I  should  find  it  hard  to 
bear.  We  have  been  like  sisters,  have  we  not, 
Bella?" 

"  Middlin'  like,  Miss  Harriet ;  but  there's  a 
deal  of  differ  between  you  and  me.  Of  coorse, 
you've  been  gracious  to  me,  very  gracious, 
and  what  you  tell  me  to  do,  the  same  I'll  do 
if  I  can." 

*'  It  isn't  can,  it  is  must,  Bella.  You  must 
do  it,  or  sin  may  come  of  it,  and  sorrow  may 
come  of  it,  and  God  only  knows  what  follow 
ing  !  Hear  what  I  say.  My  brother  George 
will  tread  upon  the  heart  of  any  woman  who 
loves  him,  whether  she  be  mother,  sister,  or 
wife.  Do  you  think  I  would  say  this  to  you 
if  I  had  not  your  interest  in  view?  Oh, 
Bella,  we  played  together  when  we  were 
children,  we  have  been  firm  friends  ever 
since  we  could  say  each  other's  name.  Does. 


BELLA    CLUCAS.  i$ 

it  matter  if  I  am  rich  and  you  are  poor  ?  No, 
indeed  !  But  because  I  am  rich  and  you  are 
poor,  I  will  not  see  you  injured.  I  will  not 
see  you  in  danger  and  not  try  to  save  you." 

"  Be  content,  Miss  Harriet.  If  there  be 
danger  near,  there  is  the  love  to  shield  me, 
and  the  good  home  for  shelter,  and  the  father 
and  brother  that  would  fight  for  me,  and 
the  mother  that  would  lay  her  life  down  for 
mine  ;  and  I'm  not  fearin'  with  all  them,  and 
God  above  me." 

"  And  I  love  you  also.  Don't  put  me  out 
of  your  counting." 

"No,  surely,  of  coorse,  but  you're  not  trustin' 
me  much,  I  think." 

"  Because  I  would  not  trust  myself  under 
the  same  circumstances  ;  because,  Bella,  I  am 
myself  in  love,  and  I  know  what  the  heart  of 
a  woman  in  love  is." 

The  girls  were  about  the  same  height,  their 
hands  were  clasped,  their  eyes  met  tenderly, 
then  they  kissed  each  other.  Harriet  felt  as 
if  the  kiss  promised  her  all  she  asked.  Bella 
had  been  a  little  offended,  and  she  meant  it  as 
the  sign  of  reconciliation  and  renewed  affec 
tion, 


1 6  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

"  Come  this  way,  Bella.  George  is  waiting 
for  you  in  the  garden  ;  I  know  he  is.  You 
will  be  forced  to  see  him,  but  not  to-night, 
not  to-night,  dear.  I  want  you  first  to  tell 
your  mother  what  I  have  said  to  you,  and  I 
want  also  to  talk  to  George.  One  should 
always  do  everything  to  prevent  evil,  that  is 
our  part,  only  God  can  cure  evil  that  has 
really  happened." 

Holding  Bella's  hand,  she  was  talking  thus 
to  her  as  they  went  through  a  long  passage 
and  a  flagged  court-yard  to  a  rear  door,  which 
led  directly  on  to  the  gaery  or  uncultivated 
land  beyond. 

There  was  a  sense  of  hurry  in  all  Miss  Pen- 
nington's  ways  and  words,  and  Bella  felt  com 
pletely  over-ruled  by  it.  But  as  she  went 
rapidly  across  the  dusky  gaery  her  eyes  were 
dim  with  tears,  and  her  heart  heavy  with  her 
new  experience. 

"  She  was  cross  to  me,  and  unjust ;  desperat' 
unjust,  thinkin'  wrong  too,  and  me  givin'  her 
no  rayson.  Aw,  scandalous!  I'll  go  yandhar 
no  more  ;  I'm  intarmined  on  that!  " 

The  sense  of  injustice  filled  her  warm  heart; 
she  walked  rapidly,  almost  unconscious  of  her 


BELLA    CLUCAS.  17 

footsteps.  As  she  got  further  and  further 
away,  she  began  to  talk  aloud,  with  little  sobs 
and  short  pauses  between  her  words : 

"  She  might  hav'  waited,  till  the  warnin' 
was  needed.  I'm  a  poor  girl,  iggrint  and 
poor,  and  of  coorse,  of  coorse — the — worst 
is  to  be  put  to  me." 

When  she  reached  the  edge  of  the  cliff  she 
turned  and  looked  back  at  the  house.  In  the 
dim  it  had  almost  a  spectral  aspect,  standing 
up  so  white  amid  the  dark  foliage  surrounding 
it.  Houses  have  their  atmosphere  as  well  as 
individuals.  In  the  stillness  and  solemnity  of 
the  night  they  reveal  something  of  their  inte 
rior  spirit.  Bella  had  turned  and  looked  at  it 
hundreds  of  times  before,  and  then  dropped 
into  the  little  valley  with  the  feeling  of  that 
look  in  her  heart.  Hitherto  it  had  been  one 
of  lonely  peace.  This  night  it  gave  her  a 
thrill  of  restlessness  and  anxiety.  She  felt 
that  sorrowful  women  were  walking  about  its 
rooms,  and  gazing  from  its  windows. 

The  first  descent  into  the  valley  was  steep, 
and  there  were  great  boulders  on  either  hand, 
lichen-covered  and  half-hid  in  brackens. 
Captain  Pennington  was  leaning  against  one 


1 8  PEET  OF  CLAY. 

of  them,  smoking  a  cigar.  She  could  hot 
avoid  him  without  turning  back.  Should  she 
do  so  ?  She  asked  herself  the  question,  and 
resolutely  answered : 

"  It's  straight  on  I'll  go.  It's  my  way,  and 
the  right  way,  and  I'll  be  turnin*  out  of  it  for 
nobody." 

"  Bella  !  Bella !  "  He  flung  his  cigar  away 
and  came  towards  her  with  outstretched 
hands. 

She  trembled,  she  stood  still,  she  was 
speechless  in  her  joy  and  fear  and  great  sur 
prise.  For,  though  she  had  been  sobbing  to 
her  complaints  of  Harriet's  injustice,  it  had  not 
been  Harriet's  injustice  which  had  wounded 
her  most.  Deeper  than  any  sense  of  her 
friend's  suspicions  was  the  pain  of  George's 
silence  and  apparent  neglect.  It  was  well  that 
she  had  made  no  positive  promise,  for  at  that 
moment  she  would  have  broken  it. 

"Bella!  Bella!  Have  you  forgotten  me?" 
He  took  her  hand,  and  did  precisely  as  Bella's 
mother  had  foretold.  And  in  a  few  minutes 
Bella  was  quite  at  her  ease  with  the  handsome 
soldier,  who  kept  reminding  her  of  the  days 
when  they  had  gone  trout-fishing  together,  and 


BELLA    CLUCAS.  1 9 

the  mornings  on  Scarlett  rocks,  and  the  even 
ings  out  on  the  moonlit  sea.  "  Do  you  remem 
ber,  Bella,  the  little  cove  where  we  let  the  boat 
drift,  and  bade  each  other  good-by  for  five 
long  years  ?  What  a  pretty  girl  you  were  ! 
And  though  I  suppose  you  have  forgot  it,  do 
you  know  that  you  really  kissed  me,  and 
promised  to  be  my  wife  when  I  grew  up  to  be 
a  man?" 

Bella  lifted  a  face  all  alight  with  joy  and  love 
to  the  dark,  handsome  one  at  her  side.  It  drew 
her  like  a  magnet.  The  kiss  almost  asked  for 
trembled  into  the  space  between  them,  and 
made  it  sweetly  sensitive.  All  warnings  were 
forgotten.  The  valley  was  an  enchanted  val 
ley  ;  right  or  wrong,  she  was  happy  beyond  her 
hope  or  dreaming. 

To  be  young  and  beautiful,  and  to  find  her 
self  in  the  sweet  hazy  twilight  of  a  summer 
night,  beloved  by  a  being  fascinating  by  nature 
and  endowed  by  her  imagination  with  every 
heroic  and  lovable  quality,  what  hope  was 
there  that  Bella  would  or  could  listen  to  warn 
ings  or  advices?  Nay,  the  warnings  and  ad 
vices  had  even  in  some  measure  prepared  her 
to  resist  them. 


20  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

She  had  a  nature  self-contained  and  self- 
reliant.  She  was  conscious  of  her  own  physical 
strength  and  courage,  and  in  her  untrained 
mind  physical  capability  stood  for  mental 
temper  and  resolution.  Harriet  Pennington's 
words  had  not  only  wounded  her  pride,  they 
had  roused  in  her  an  active  antagonism  :  a  de 
sire  to  do  the  very  thing  she  had  been  forbid 
den  to  do,  and  in  the  doing  declare  her  ability 
to  guide  with  wisdom  her  own  destiny. 

A  strange  tumult  was  in  her  heart,  but  it 
was  a  happy  tumult ;  and  Captain  Pennington 
was  satisfied  with  the  result  of  his  interview. 
He  strolled  home  in  a  mood  of  sweet  anticipa 
tion,  and  the  thought  of  Harriet's  opposition 
was  an  element  piquant  and  provocative. 

And  at  this  stage  Bella  was  too  excited  to 
affect  indifference  or  to  contemplate  deception. 
Her  mother  was  sitting  on  the  step  of  the  cot 
tage.  The  day  had  nothing  more  to  demand 
of  her;  she  had  put  away  even  her  knitting, 
and  was  idly  gazing  at  the  herring-boats  lying 
at  rest  on  the  horizon.  Her  husband  and  son 
were  with  the  fleet,  but  she  was  not  anxious 
about  them,  nor  at  that  moment  was  she 
troubling  herself  even  about  Bella. 


JS ELLA    CLUCAS.  21 

But  the  girl's  face  startled  her.  "  Sit  down 
Bella,  ma  chree  ! "  she  said,  "  I  wouldn'  trust  but 
you've  been  worried  a  bit  by  the  way  you 
look." 

!  "Miss  Harriet  was  cross ;  uncommon  cross, 
you'd  hardly  credit  the  unjust  she  was,  and 
the  suspicious  ;  aw,  scandalous !  " 

"  Is  it  thrue  you're  tellin'  ?  " 

"And  warnin'  me  about  the  Captain  and  the 
like,  and  runnin'  him  into  the  garden,  and  me 
out  by  the  back  door  on  to  the  gaery  for  fear 
I'd  be  spakin'  with  him  at  all." 

"  Ladies'  airs  and  faddin' !  Hav'  no  regardin' 
for  such.  Captain  Pennington  isn't  gold  and 
diamonds  if  all  words  are  thrue  words  that  are 
spoke  of  him.  There's  odds  of  gentlemen,  and 
the  best  kind  goin'  will  do  for  you  to  leave 
alone.  Aw,  yes,  middlin'  bad,  the  most  of 
them !" 

"Mother,  I'll  tell  you  the  truth.  At  the 
top  of  the  glen  Captain  Pennington  was  waitin' 
for  me,  and  that  pleased  and  friendly ;  and  out 
with  both  hands,  and  was  I  forgettin'  him, 
and  the  good  days  behind  us,  and  carryin'  on, 
like  that." 

"  Of  coorse,  of  coorse  !     Sweet  as  honey  he'd 


22  FEET  OF 

be — desperat'  sweet ;  and  it's  as  much  as  you'll 
do  to  keep  clear  of  him,  but  aw,  ma  chree ! 
shut  your  eyes  to  the  like  of  him,  and  don't 
mind  what  he  says ;  the  soul  of  a  foolish  girl 
dwells  in  her  ear;  aw,  yes,  and  she  may  be  led 
away  with  a  whisper." 

"Let  us  go  to  bed,  mother.  You  was  allis 
hard  upon  Captain  Pennington." 

"  Aw,  my  dear,  and  you  was  allis  too  soft. 
But  bed  is  the  best,  and  sleep,  and  mayve  good 
dreams  to  make  the  simple  wise.  Good-night, 
ma  chree  !  Sleep  and  I'll  wake  for  you.  It's 
a  mother's  prayer  that  brings  the  angels  round, 
and  the  holy  thoughts,  and  the  paysible. 
She's  gone — God  bless  the  girl !  " 


CHAPTER  II. 

WANTED — A  THOUSAND  POUNDS. 

"  Those  who  kindle  a  fire,  must  put  up  with  the  smoke." 

"  There  are  no  windows  in  a  man's  breast  to  publish 
what  he  does  within  doors,  unless  his  own  rash  folly 
blab  it." 

(t  A  ND  he  really  wants  mother  to  give 
_[\  him  a  thousand  pounds  to  pay  his 
debts?"  Harriet  Pennington  felt  obliged  to 
utter  the  words  aloud  ;  she  could  not  believe 
her  own  thought,  unless  she  made  it  audible. 
A  thousand  pounds  seemed  a  great  deal  of 
money  to  her.  How  it  appeared  to  her 
mother,  how  it  would  affect  their  own  daily 
life,  she  could  not  tell.  Mrs.  Pennington  had 
always  been  reserved  as  to  her  resources. 
They  had  lived  in  good  style,  and  the  cash  for 
their  domestic  wants  had  come  without  care 
and  without  petty  restrictions  and  delays. 
But  yet  Harriet  understood  that  her  brother's 
demand  had  brought  sorrow  and  anxiety. 
The  private  interview  between  mother  and 
23 


*4  FEET  OF 

son  had  been  a  prolonged  and  painful  one ; 
and  the  mother  had  certainly  been  made  ill 
by  its  revelations. 

She  loved  her  brother,  but  she  was  not  blind 
to  his  faults.  During  her  childhood  she  had 
often  suffered  for  them.  Whatever  others 
thought  of  George  Pennington,  she  knew  him 
to  be  selfish  and  overbearing.  "  His  fine  ap 
pearance!  His  fine  manners  !  "  she  said  scorn 
fully,  "what  are  they  worth?  He  never  does 
a  really  noble  or  any  kind  action.  His  love 
has  never  conferred  happiness  on  any  living 
creature,  because  he  has  never  sacrificed  his 
smallest  personal  desire  to  those  whom  he  pro 
fessed  to  love  :  and  I  saw  his  face  last  night, 
as  he  watched  Bella  coming  through  the  gar 
den.  Will  he  respect  her,  because  she  has 
been  the  playmate  and  companion  of  my  child 
hood,  because  I  still  love  her,  and  care  for 
her  future  ?  I  would  not  believe  him,  if  he 
swore  to  it !  I  saw  his  face  last  night." 

It  is  not  usual  in  these  days  for  young  girls 
to  soliloquize  ;  because  now  the  majority  live 
in  crowds,  they  travel,  they  have  continual  so 
ciety.  But  children  and  girls  reared  in  seclu 
sion,  with  few  companions  and  no  confidants, 


WANTED— A    THOUSAND  POUNDS.         25 

are  almost  certain  to  talk  to  their  own  hearts. 
But  for  this  resource,  Harriet  would  often 
have  felt  very  lonely.  She  had  grown  familiar 
with  it.  If  she  were  happy,  she  told  herself  so  ; 
if  any  annoyance  came  into  her  life,  she  was 
certain  to  discuss  it  sotto  voce  in  her  solitude. 

She  stood  at  the  open  window  as  she  spoke 
her  thoughts,  letting  the  breeze  from  the  sea 
blow  upon  her,  and  stir  into  exquisite  motion 
the  tendrils  of  her  dark  hair  and  the  white 
muslin  of  her  gown.  Her  face  was  beautiful, 
and  her  blue-gray  eyes  clear  as  truth  itself. 
She  had  a  tall  figure,  moulded  to  perfection, 
and  the  finest  complexion  imaginable,  white 
as  the  petal  of  a  white  rose,  but  reddening  like 
the  morning  to  a  noble  feeling  or  a  pleasant 
thought.  There  was  a  great  bowl  of  Derby 
china  on  a  little  stand  before  her  ;  it  was  full  of 
freshly  gathered  red  roses,  and  when  she  had 
finished  her  soliloquy  she  stooped,  and  laid  her 
face  against  their  fragrant,  dewy  leaves. 

"I  wonder  if  you  too  know  what  sorrow 
is  ?  "  she  whispered  to  them.  "  Are  your  hearts 
aching  because  you  have  been  taken  from  your 
companions?  Perhaps  the  little  roses  and  the 
half-opened  buds  were  your  children  !  Do  you 


26  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

miss  them,  and  the  butterflies,  and  the  warm 
sun  ?  Did  the  other  flowers  send  you  per 
fumed  messages  when  you  were  on  your  tree, 
and  will  they  forget  you  now  ?  You  are  only 
roses  but  you  are  far  more  beautiful  than  I  am. 
Oh  !  if  you  should  have  a  sensitive  life  of  your 
own,  and  were  breathing  away  your  sweet 
souls  in  mournful  memories  and  unavailing  re 
grets  ! "  She  kissed  them,  one,  and  then  the 
other,  and  thought  with  a  kind  of  anger  of 
the  gardener's  sharp  shears.  "  I  will  tell  Ker- 
win  to  let  them  live  out  their  few  days  where 
God  set  them.  I  wonder  I  never  saw  before 
the  reproachful  sadness  of  flowers  cut  off  from 
all  they  love,  and  then  bound  together  in  a 
bowl  or  a  vase!" 

"  Harriet,  I  want  you." 

"  I  am  here,  George." 

"  But  I  want  you  to  walk  to  Castleton  with 
me." 

"  Not  this  morning.    I  am  expecting  a  friend." 

"  A  friend  !  I  am  your  brother,  and  my 
claim  is  first.  I  think  all  friends  ought  to  step 
aside  for  me,  especially  when  I  see  you  so 
seldom.  Come,  Harry,  I  have  important 
things  to  talk  of," 


WANTED—A    THOUSAND  POUNDS.          27 

"  Then  let  us  go  to  the  beach." 

"  I  want  to  go  into  Castleton." 

"  George  dear,  I  would  rather  not  go  there 
this  morning." 

"  Then  take  your  own  way.  To  please 
themselves !  that  is  all  women  think  of ; 
'  Selfish,  aw,  scandalous  selfish,'  as  Quayle 
would  say." 

"  George,  I  do  not  want  to  go  out  at  all, 
and  if  I  go  to  the  beach,  it  will  be  to  please 
you  and  not  myself." 

"  Very  well,  Harry  ;  any  way  you  like  to  put 
it.  Only  do  not  waste  my  time.  I  will  give 
you  ten  minutes  to  put  your  bonnet  on." 

But  Harriet  was  a  girl  of  deliberate  and  ex 
quisitely  neat  methods,  and  the  Captain's  ten 
minutes  was  much  lengthened.  He  made  no 
special  complaint,  it  was  his  interest  at  this 
hour  to  please  his  sister ;  and  he  began  the 
process  as  soon  as  Quayle  had  closed  the 
door  behind  them. 

"  What  a  lovely  garden  you  have  made, 
Harry !  Such  noble  trees !  Such  lovely 
flowers  !  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said  ;  "  they  really  look  as  if 
they  enjoyed  themselves  here.  I  hope  they  do," 


28  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

The  remark  was  the  only  one  George 
thought  it  necessary  to  make.  Having  sac 
rificed  so  much  to  his  sister's  prejudices,  his 
own  desires  became  paramount.  He  was 
never  inclined  to  approach  them  in  pleasant 
or  unobtrusive  ways,  and  a  kindly  diplomacy, 
when  it  was  only  his  sister,  seemed  to  him 
a  ridiculous  piece  of  politeness. 

"  Harry,  has  mother  told  you  about  the 
thousand  pounds  I  need?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  say  something  about  it." 

"  You  might  not  like  to  hear  what  I  have  to 
say.  A  thousand  pounds  seems  to  me  a  large 
sum  of  money." 

"  Women  are  always  unreasonable  about 
money.  They  simply  have  no  just  ideas  on 
the  subject.  Mother  and  you  are  living  in 
extravagance  ;  yes,  in  dreadful  extravagance. 
Three  men-servants,  and  three  women-ser 
vants,  to  wait  upon  two  single  women.  A 
pair  of  ponies  for  mother's  phaeton,  a  saddle- 
horse  for  yourself,  everything  your  hearts 
can  desire,  and  I  am  driven  out  of  my  wits 
nearly,  to  make  buckle  and  tongue  meet." 

"  Everything   our    hearts    desire    does    not 


WANTED— A    THOUSAND  POUNDS.          2$ 

include  gambling,  racing,  and  other  sinful  and 
wasteful  methods  of  throwing  money  away. 
And  you  must  be  a  heartless  son  to  count  up 
against  mother  such  a  thing  so  necessary  to 
her  comfort  as  her  ponies !  Besides,  what 
right  have  you  to  make  any  remarks  about 
mother's  expenditure?  Her  money  is  not 
yours." 

"  Harriet,  keep  your  temper,  and  hear  me 
out.  How  do  you  know  that  it  is  not  mine  ? 
I  suppose  our  father  is  dead  !  I  suppose,  from 
all  appearances,  that  he  left  money.  Being 
the  only  son,  I  suppose  my  interest  in  it 
would  begin  when  I  was  of  age.  Mother  has 
never  explained  my  position  to  me,  and  I 
must  say  she  has  acted  in  a  very  singular 
manner,  and  I  have  been  uncommonly  pa 
tient  ;  yes,  by  Jove,  uncommonly  patient  !  " 

"Why  are  you  complaining  to  me  now?  If 
you  think  so  shamefully  of  mother,  go  to  her 
with  your  supposed  wrongs.  I  have  thought 
hardly  of  you  many  times,  George,  but  never 
so  badly  as  at  this  moment.  Your  ingrati 
tude  is  something  shocking.*' 

"  Come  now,  Harriet,  you  have  no  right  to 
prejudge  me.  You  accept  things  just  as  they 


30  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

are,  because  things  are  exceedingly  comfort 
able  for  you  ;  and  as  the  lawyers  say,  you  have 
no  '  interest  to  move  the  question.'  But  put 
yourself  in  my  place,  and  the  case  is  different. 
Only  the  day  before  I  left  my  company,  I  was 
introduced  to  a  fellow,  who,  on  hearing  my 
name,  said  at  once,  '  Pennington  !  The  Cum 
berland  Penningtons,  I  suppose.'  The  ques 
tion  put  me  all  out.  I  don't  even  know  my 
own  family ;  and  in  a  crack  regiment  that  is 
not  a  subject  where  ignorance  is  desirable. 
You  and  mother  sit  days  and  months  and 
years  together;  has  she  never  told  you  any 
thing?  " 

"  If  you  mean,  has  she  never  told  me  any 
thing  about  our  family,  I  answer,  no !  I  never 
asked  her.  If  you  want  me  to  ask  her,  I  must 
say,  in  advance,  that  I  will  not  do  it.  If  there 
is  any  mystery  about  us,  be  sure  that  her  reti 
cence  is  the  greatest  kindness.  There  is 
always  sorrow  in  any  mystery,  perhaps  even 
sin.  We  ought  to  be  thankful  to  have  no 
knowledge  of  that  kind.  And  I  do  not  be 
lieve  that  there  is  any  mystery.  Mother  does 
not  look  like  a  woman  with  a  secret.  She  is 
cheerful,  energetic,  full  of  every-day  business, 


WANTED— A    THOUSAND  POUNDS.         31 

and  not  at  all  given  to  brooding  or  looking 
behind  her.  I  never  saw  her  frightened  in  my 
life.  She  never  watches  for  letters,  and  she 
very  seldom  writes  them.  It  is  all  nonsense  ! 
You  want  money  from  mother,  and  as  you 
have  no  shadow  of  proof  that  she  has  done 
wrong  to  you,  you  would  like  to  excuse  your 
self  upon  the  likelihood  of  her  having  done  you 
a  wrong.  Such  a  suspicion  is  in  itself  an  act 
of  wickedness." 

As  they  spoke  they  had  reached  the  top  of 
the  cliff.  There  was  a  large,  flat  boulder  near 
by,  and  they  sat  down  upon  it.  Harriet  was 
trembling  with  indignation,  but,  for  all  that, 
she  was  under  the  influence  of  her  brother. 
His  commanding  figure,  his  striking  face,  his 
graceful  undress  uniform,  his  authoritative 
manner,  affected  her  as  such  things  naturally 
affect  women ;  though  if  she  had  been  able  to 
analyze  her  submission  to  his  will,  she  would 
both  have  resisted  and  resented  the  power 
that  controlled  her. 

"  I  do  not  want  to  sit  down,  George,"  she 
said,  "  and  there  is  no  use  in  our  prolonging 
this  discussion  ";  but  yet  she  obeyed  the  mag 
netism  of  his  eyes,  and  the  touch  of  his  hand. 


32  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

It  struck  her,  as  she  did  so,  how  irresistible  he 
must  be  to  a  woman  in  love  with  him,  and  her 
thoughts  went,  laden  with  pity  and  fear,  to  the 
little  cottage  where  Bella  Clucas  was  at  that 
moment  dreaming  the  sweetest  and  the  most 
unlikely  of  romances. 

But  though  Harriet  sat  down  in  obedience 
to  her  brother's  glance  and  touch,  she  endeav 
ored  to  change  the  subject  of  conversation. 
She  pointed  out  the  tremulous,  volitant  motion 
of  the  breeze  upon  the  waves,  and  the  two  or 
three  solitary  crafts  skimming  them.  "  The 
herring  fleet  is  in  harbor,"  she  said.  "  Those 
are  private  boats.  The  one  to  the  east 
ward  is  Colonel  Porter's  pleasure  skiff,  that 
one  lying  on  the  horizon  belongs  to  the 
Kellys— " 

"  Harriet,  never  mind  the  boats.  I  care 
nothing  about  them.  They  may  go  to  the 
bottom,  if  the  winds  and  the  waves  are  agree 
able.  You  say,  that  mother  at  no  time  told 
you  anything  about  our  family  ?  " 

"  Not  one  word,  at  any  time." 

"You  suppose  yourself  to  have  been  born 
here?" 

"  I  remember  no  other  home." 


Jj 

11  But  Idol  1  was  five  years  old  when  I 
Came  here.  I  remember  a  house,  that  in  my 
memory  was  ten  times  as  large  as  the  one  we 
are  living  in  now.  It  had  staircases  as  wide  as 
our  dining-room  ;  silent,  dark  staircases,  with 
soft-footed  men  in  a  yellowish  livery,  going  up 
and  down  them.  I  remember  peeping  through 
the  balusters  once,  and  seeing  an  endless  room 
all  alight,  and  filled  with  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
and  hearing  wonderful  music.  The  house  was 
in  a  wood  or  park.  I  used  to  ride  about  it, 
and  think  it  was  all  the  world,  and  a  very  big 
world  too." 

"  You  dreamt  the  whole  story,  George. 
Bella,  and  the  peasants,  and  the  fishermen 
and  women,  every  one  of  them,  tell  me  some 
thing  similar.  They  say  they  have  been  with 
the  fairies." 

"  You  need  not  try  to  insult  my  intelligence, 
Harriet.  I  dreamt  nothing  that  I  have  told 
you.  I  remember  it.  As  for  the  fairies — " 

"  Do  not  abuse  the  fairies,  George.  Every 
one  has  seen  them  on  this  island.  Hal  Cork- 
hill  told  me  last  Tuesday,  that  they  kept  him 
in  Ballasalla  glen  all  Monday  night." 

"  The  man  was  drunk,  of  course.     But  it  is 


34  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

singular  that  both  you  and  mother  have  taken 
up  the  same  cry." 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  mother  about  these 
remembrances,  as  you  call  them  ?  " 

"  When  I  was  a  boy  about  nine  years  old,  I 
told  her  one  night  as  we  were  walking  in  the 
garden,  about  that  other  garden.  I  described 
both  it  and  the  conservatory,  and  the  long 
glass  house  full  of  great  clusters  of  white  and 
purple  grapes." 

"Well?" 

"  She  said  as  you  have  just  said — '  George, 
you  have  been  dreaming.'  Her  voice  was  so 
cold  and  stern  I  durst  say  no  more,  and  indeed 
she  took  me  into  the  house  and  called  Curran, 
you  remember  Curran,  and  said,  '  Curran,  I 
particularly  request  you  to  tell  Master  George 
no  more  about  the  fairies.  He  is  beginning 
to  forget  where  real  life  ends  and  fairy-land 
begins.' ' 

"  Have  you  never  spoken  since  ?  " 

"  When  I  went  to  Rugby,  I  spoke  again. 
She  listened  then  more  patiently.  I  reminded 
her  of  one  dark,  windy  night,  when  I  went  to 
bed  in  my  clothes,  and  woke  up  in  a  carnage. 
There  was  no  light  but  the  gleaming  of  the 


WANTED— A    THOUSAND  POUNDS.          35 

carriage  lamps,  and  I  was  in  the  arms  of  a  gen 
tleman,  who  spoke  kindly  to  me,  and  told  me 
to  go  to  sleep  again.  Mother  also  spoke  to 
me,  and  I  saw  you  upon  her  knee.  You  were 
a  little  babe,  and  you  cried  a  great  deal. 
That  is  my  first  remembrance  of  you,  Harriet." 

"Well,  then?" 

"Only,  that  when  I  woke  next,  I  was  in  a 
ship.  There  a  man  with  a  long  beard  carried 
me  about  a  great  deal.  I  am  sure  he  was  a 
sailor,  but  the  man  who  held  me  in  the  car. 
riage  was  a  gentleman.  I  cannot  say  how, 
being  such  a  little  fellow,  I  could  make  this 
distinction,  but  I  know  that  I  am  correct." 

"And  you  told  mother  all  this?" 

"  I  did.  I  was  fourteen  years  old  then,  and 
not  to  be  chid,  and  snubbed,  and  put  to  bed, 
but  the  result  came  to  about  the  same  thing. 
She  smiled  incredulously,  and  said,  '  I  must 
have  had  a  singular  and  forcible  dream  when  I 
was  very  young.  Perhaps  it  is  a  prophetic 
one,'  she  added.  'You  may  have  seen  the 
home  of  your  manhood ;  indeed  I  hope  great 
things  from  you,  George,'  and  so  on,  and  so 
on,  anything  to  change  the  subject,  and  give 
it  an  air  of  fancy  and  unsubstantially." 


"  Suppose  all  this  is  true,  George,  what 
it  amount  to?  That  the  probability  is,  we 
were  born  in  an  affluence  which  has  been  lost. 
That  loss  implies,  as  I  have  said,  either  sorrow 
or  something  worse  than  sorrow.  Perhaps  the 
death  of  our  father  made  us  poor.  But  what 
would  have  been  poverty  in  England  is  wealth 
on  the  Island.  I  think  it  very  likely  moth 
er  retired  here,  in  order  to  save  enough  to  give 
you  your  education  and  commission.  She  is 
precisely  the  woman  to  make  a  grand  sacrifice, 
and  say  nothing  about  it." 

"  I  wonder  where  the  sacrifice  comes  in  ? 
She  has  always  had  a  beautiful  house,  and 
plenty  of  servants,  and  all  that  a  woman  could 
desire." 

"  Mother  is  still  handsome.  When  she 
came  here,  she  must  have  been  younger  than 
you  are  to-day.  If  there  is  any  truth  in  your 
dream,  she  had  likely  been  born  to  a  high 
social  position.  Is  it  no  sacrifice  for  a  woman 
of  twenty-three  to  live  in  absolute  seclu 
sion  and  give  up  her  whole  life  to  her  chil 
dren?" 

"  Mother  always  seemed  to  enjoy  herself. 
Of  course  women  like  lovers  and  admiration  ', 


b  ritwbd.     ft 

and  I  dare  say  she  could  have  had  plenty  of 
both  ;  the  officers  from  the  garrison  would 
have  liked  to  come  to  our  house,  but  I  never 
heard  of  mother;  did  you?" 

"  I  will  not  sit  here  and  discuss  so  scandal 
ous  an  insinuation." 

"Then  we  will  return  home.  I  meant  no 
harm,  not  the  slightest  disrespect,  I  assure  you. 
But,  Harriet,  you  have  a  bad  habit  of  looking 
for  unpleasant  motives." 

She  rose  as  he  spoke,  and  for  some  mo 
ments  they  walked  on  silently.  The  salt  savor 
of  the  sea  wind  was  crossed  by  a  waft  of  hay- 
fields  and  meadow-sweet ;  and  Harriet  could 
not  resist  the  influence.  "  How  delightful  it 
is!"  she  said. 

"What  is  delightful?" 

"The  air,  the  sea,  the  land,  the  azure 
above  us." 

"Oh!  I  was  thinking  of  that  thousand 
pounds.  Harriet,  I  must  have  it.  I  cannot 
go  back  to  my  regiment  without  it.  If  there 
is  no  other  way,  then  I  will  sell  out.  Any 
how,  a  beggar  like  me  has  no  business  among 
gentlemen.*' 

"  You  are  not  a  beggar,  George.     Major  De 


38  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

Luny  lives  in  good  style,  upon  half  your  in 
come,  and  he  has  a  large  family." 

"Pshaw!  There  is  no  reasoning  with 
women.  A  statement  is  all  that  they  compre 
hend.  I  must  have  a  thousand  pounds.  Will 
you  help  me  to  get  it?  I  am  your  only  broth 
er,  and  you  act  as  if  you  disliked  to  put  a  fin 
ger  out  to  aid  me  in  my  trouble." 

"  If  you  are  in  real  trouble  I  will  do  all  that 
I  possibly  can  to  help  you,  George. " 

"I  am  in  real  trouble.  If  I  do  not  get  the 
money,  I  shall  be  ruined  and  disgraced." 

"Have  you  told  mother  this?" 

"  Well,  yes,  in  a  measure." 

"  Tell  her  as  plainly  as  you  tell  me." 

"  You  might  say  the  words  for  me.  When 
I  spoke  about  a  thousand  pounds,  she  stood 
up  and  looked  at  me  so  steadily,  that  I  did 
not  know  what  I  was  saying,  or  doing,  and  I 
blundered  into  an  excuse,  which  just  made 
everything  worse." 

"  What  was  that?  Surely  you  did  not  dare 
to  question  mother  about  money,  or  what  you 
call  your  rights?" 

"  No.  I  told  her  about  a  bit  of  paper, 
between  young  Penrith  and  me ;  and  the 


WANTED— A    THOUSAND  POUNDS.         39 

moment  I  mentioned  his  name  she  turned  as 
white  as  a  ghost,  and  then  fell  down  in  a  faint. 
I  thought  she  was  dead  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  suffered  more  than  she  did,  I  am  sure.  It 
knocked  me  all  up.  I  was  ill  for  hours,  and  I 
could  not  bear  to  go  through  a  scene  like  it 
again." 

"  I  should  think  you  would  not  like  mother 
to  go  through  another  scene  like  it." 

"  You  know  how  to  manage  mother,  Har 
riet.  Speak  to  her.  Tell  her  I  must  have  the 
money.  Say  you  think  I  ought  to  have  it. 
Show  her  how  you  might  economize  a  little, 
you  know  what  to  say,  anything  likely  to 
bring  the  guineas." 

"  George,  if  I  do  this  for  you,  will  you 
promise  me  not  to  trouble  Bella  Clucas  ?  I  love 
Bella.  I  do  not  want  her  to  suffer  for  your 
pleasure.  Promise  me  not  to  make  love  to 
her;  you  cannot  do  so  without  deeply  wrong 
ing  her."  ' 

"  Did  I  not  obey  you  last  night  ?  What  you 
told  me  to  do  I  did." 

"  I  spoke  in  the  hurry  of  the  moment,  and 
not  very  wisely,  I  fear,  George.  For  consider 
ing  your  former  intimacy  with  Bella,  it  was 


only  riatural  that  you  should  have  recognized 
her.  And  Mrs.  Clucas  and  Ruthie  will  expect 
a  call,  and  I  was  foolish  to  put  you  in  a  false 
position.  I  ought  to  have  allowed  you  to 
speak  kindly  and  naturally  to  Bella  last  night, 
and  then  no  importance  would  have  been 
given  to  a  few  words,  either  here  or  there. 
George,  promise  me  not  to  use  your  power 
over  Bella." 

"  Get  me  the  thousand  pounds  and  you  may 
dictate  to  me  every  word  that  I  am  to  say  in 
that  quarter.  Bella  is  a  dear  girl,  and  a  hand 
some  girl,  and  I  should  enjoy  making  her 
desperately  in  love  with  me ;  but  I  am  not 
above  being  bought  out,  if  you  want  a  monop 
oly  of  Bella's  affection." 

This  declaration  closed  the  conversation. 
Harriet  did  not  reply  to  it.  She  was  dazed 
and  pained  with  the  revelations  made  to  her. 
Once  she  glanced  into  her  brother's  face.  She 
wondered  if  there  might  not  be  on  it  some 
smile  or  glance  which  would  undo  the  totally 
selfish  impression  of  his  words.  No !  It  was 
handsome,  cool,  and  intelligent ;  but  it  was  a 
face  without  a  heart. 


CHAPTER   III. 

THE  COTTAGE   IN  GLEN-MELLISH. 

"  Passions,  like  seas,  will  have  their  ebbs  and  flows." 

''  To-morrow  I  will  live,  the  fool  doth  say ; 
To-day  itself's  too  late  ; — the  wise  lived  yesterday." 

"  Fate  ne'er  strikes  deep,  but  when  unkindness  joins  ; 
But  there's  a  fate  in  kindness, 
Still  to  be  least  returned  where  most  'tis  given." 

THE  cottage  of  Ruthie  Clucas  stood  in  the 
little  valley  called  Glen-Mellish — Mel- 
lish,  honey,  probably  because  its  sides  were 
covered  with  wild  thyme,  and  the  bees,  busy 
and  pleased,  were  in  the  season  always  making 
honey  there.  As  George  and  Harriet  Pen- 
nington  walked  through  it  the  following  morn 
ing,  their  ancient  murmur  was  all  around,  and 
as  they  approached  the  cottage  they  saw  some 
rude  shelves  upon  the  hillside,  filled  with  the 
same  straw  skeps  whose  shape  was  familiar 
two  thousand  years  ago  to  "  sweet  Hymettus 
Hill." 

"  Behold,"    said    George,    "  the   citizens  of 
41 


42  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

every  community.  I  never  was  anywhere, 
Harriet,  where  the  peasants  were  too  poor  to 
own  this  winged  stock.  In  the  languid  lotus 
lands  of  Africa,  I  saw  them  busy  all  day.  In 
Egypt,  they  robbed  the  orange-flowers  of  the 
Said,  and  the  roses  of  Facium,  and  the  treas 
ures  of  the  Arabian  jasmine,  from  dawn  till 
dark.  In  Persia  and  India,  they  worked  among 
gardens  of  spice.  In  Syria  and  Palestine,  the 
very  rocks  brought  forth  honey." 

Harriet  looked  at  him  with  admiration. 
"  How  much  you  know,  George !  How  far 
you  have  travelled  !  You  love  learning.  You 
are  no  empty-headed  fop.  How  then  can  you 
bear  to  throw  away  your  time  among  horse 
jockeys,  and  your  money  among  gamblers, 
men  without  ideas  and  without  feelings  !  " 

"  How  ?  How  can  any  one  do  what  is 
foolish  and  unworthy  of  them  ?  I  lean  to 
jockeys  and  gamblers  ;  Fairfax  to  wine  and 
women.  Derby  is  ruining  himself  with  dab 
bling  in  bricks  and  mortar,  and  another  fel 
low  I  know,  by  yachting.  I  am  sure  I  wish 
ten  ounces  of  wisdom  came  with  every  ounce 
of  gold.  I  can  tell  you,  that  I  never  had  one 
hour's  real  pleasure  out  of  that  thousand 


THE   COTTAGE  IN  GLEN-MELLISH.         43 

pounds.  However  it  went,  it  went  with  an 
noyance,  and  was  followed  by  anxiety.  I  did 
not  even  have  the  sense  of  spending  royally. 
Some  one  else  at  my  side  spent  thousands 
where  I  spent  hundreds,  and  I  felt  just  as  mean 
as  if  I  had  kept  my  guineas  in  my  pocket." 

"  A  great  deal  meaner,  I  should  say.  George, 
I  had  a  long  talk  with  mother  last  night,  and 
she  is  quite  inclined  to  let  you  sell  out.  In 
deed,  she  thinks  you  ought  to." 

"You  mean  that  she  will  not  let  me  have 
the  money." 

"  I  think  she  cannot.  She  told  me  that  she 
had  not  been  responsible  for  your  education, 
nor  for  your  commission,  nor  for  the  income 
given  you  to  support  it.  She  said  she  had 
disapproved  of  the  way  in  which  you  had  been 
educated,  and  regretted,  in  stronger  words 
than  I  ever  heard  mother  use  before,  that  you 
had  not  been  sent  to  school  in  the  Island,  and 
articled  to  Daniel  Teare  afterwards,  for  a 
lawyer.  She  thinks  it  is  not  too  late  for  you 
yet  to  begin  the  study  of  law ;  and  I  can  see 
that  she  intends  you  to  pay  the  debt  you  have 
contracted,  out  of  such  resources  as  you 
possess." 


44  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

He  took  the  information  with  an  indiffer 
ence  which  amazed  his  sister.  "  If  it  comes  to 
that,  Harriet,  all  right !  I  know  the  worst, 
and  it  isn't  bad.  I  do  not  believe  I  like  the 
army.  If  I  had  ten  thousand  a  year,  the  uni 
form  is  becoming,  and  it  might  be  worth  a 
trifle  of  duty  to  have  the  right  to  wear  it. 
But  a  cavalry  officer  on  five  hundred  pounds  a 
year  is  in  a  mess  all  the  time.  I  will  not 
trouble  mother  any  more.  Jacques  can  ar 
range  everything,  and  I  will  run  down  to  Lon 
don,  and  bring  away  my  books  and  the  valu 
able  things  I  gathered  when  I  was  travelling. 
They  will  make  a  kind  of  museum  for  you, 
and  are  better  here  than  anywhere  else." 

"George,  do  not  take  such  an  important 
change  so  recklessly." 

"  How  do  you  want  me  to  take  it  ?  Am  I 
to  stamp,  and  rave,  and  tear  my-  locks  out  ?  I 
have  my  own  philosophy,  Harriet,  and  it  never 
permits  me  to  regret  the  inevitable." 

"Yesterday  you  were  very  anxious.  I  do 
not  understand  you." 

"  As  long  as  it  seemed  to  be  my  duty  to 
worry  about  that  thousand  pounds,  I  think  I 
worried  very  conscientiously.  Mother  has 


THE   COTTAGE  IN  GLEX-MELLISff.         45 

now  decided  the  question  of  my  future.  I 
accept  her  decision  as  the  voice  of  destiny.  I 
have  nothing  now  to  do  but  acquiesce.  The 
result  will  come  to  me,  and,  in  the  mean  time, 
I  shall  improve  my  acquaintance  with  natural 
history — and  pretty  Bella  Clucas." 

"  George,  if  you — " 

"  Harry,  you  have  run  yourself  out  of  threats. 
You  have  not  one  left,  I  fear.  That  thousand 
pounds  failure  sets  me  free.  I  think  I  am  glad 
I  have  lost  it."  Then  his  face  darkened,  and 
he  said  through  tightly  shut  teeth  :  "  I  wish  I 
knew  who  paid  for  my  education  and  com 
mission.  I  do  not  thank  mother  for  making 
me  take  any  one's  charity.  Why  didn't  the 
fellow  give  me  his  name  with  his  gold?  I 
hate  anonymous  gifts  !  " 

They  were  at  the  cottage  door  as  he  spoke, 
and  as  soon  as  he  noticed  the  fact,  his  face 
cleared  instantaneously.  It  seemed  to  cost 
him  no  effort  to  put  disagreeable  thoughts  out 
of  his  consciousness,  to  clothe  his  counte 
nance  in  careless  good-humor,  and  to  enter 
the  humble  door  with  an  irresistibly  delight 
ful  manner. 

Bella  stood  at  the  long  table  kneading  bar- 


46  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

ley  cakes.  Her  arms  were  bare,  and  her  hands 
covered  with  dough.  She  held  them  up  with 
a  pretty,  deprecating  smile,  and  dropped  a 
courtesy  to  her  visitors.  In  the  bright  sun 
shine  she  looked  incredibly  lovely.  George 
gazed  at  her  radiant  face,  set  in  its  frame  of 
radiant  hair,  and  told  Bella  his  admiration  in 
one  swift  glance,  that  said  more  than  could 
have  been  said  in  an  hour's  flattering  words. 

Harriet  seated  herself  upon  one  of  the 
white,  three-legged  stools,  but  George  leaned 
against  the  lintel  of  the  door.  He  knew  in 
what  positions  he  looked  the  handsomest, 
and  he  was  not  disposed  to  place  his  fine  fig 
ure  in  any  posture  where  it  did  not  show  to 
the  best  advantage. 

Mary  Clucas  heard  the  little  stir  of  their 
arrival,  and  came  hastily  in  from  the  fish-shed 
behind  the  house.  The  young  soldier  doffed 
his  cap,  and  began  at  once  "  the  chittin',  and 
chattin',  and  ways  that  pleasin',"  which  Mary 
had  admitted  to  her  daughter  were  irresistible. 
She  was  "  throwin'  the  joke  back  at  him," 
before  she  thought  of  the  dangerous  license 
this  joking  permitted.  Ruthie  simply  had  no 
thought  of  danger.  He  would  as  soon  have 


THE   COTTAGE  IN  GLEN-MELLISH.         47 

expected  that  his  handsome  son,  Gale  Clucas, 
should  go  courting  the  Deemster's  pretty 
daughter,  as  that  Captain  Pennington  should 
be  casting  love-glances  at  his  own  Bella.  For 
he  had  known  the  Captain  many  a  year,  and 
had  taken  him  with  him  in  his  fishing-boat  in 
all  kinds  of  weather.  Also,  he  had  seen  him 
about  the  cottage  constantly,  and  thought  it 
nothing  wrong  for  Bella,  a  barefooted  lassie, 
to  carry  his  creel  and  bait,  and  go  with  him 
to  the  hills,  "just  to  break  the  lonesome- 
ness." 

He  followed  his  wife  with  that  slowness  of 
step  which  became  the  dignity  of  a  Manx 
husband — a  personage  who  always  considers 
himself  a  great  man  in  his  own  household,  and 
who  assumes  a  very  lordly  tone  with  his 
"woman"  and  the  children.  Ruthie  was 
large  and  fresh-looking,  with  eyes  that  re 
minded  one  of  the  sea ;  white,  even  teeth, 
and  a  full,  black  beard,  streaked  with  gray. 

He  took  the  Captain's  gloved  hand  in  his 
huge  clasp,  and  welcomed  him  with  a  cordial 
ity  none  the  less  sincere  for  its  touch  of  shy> 
ness.  Then  stroking  his  hair,  and  coughing  a 
little  nervously,  he  sat  down  in  the  chair 


48  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

which  was  his  of  right,  and  began  to  talk  of 
the  night's  fishing. 

"  A  grand  night  it  was,"  he  said  ;  "  aw,  yes, 
and  a  grand  take,  and  God  blessing  the  nets ! 
Fish  thallure !  and  fine  ones !  aw,  wonderful 
fine!  And  I'll  be  sending  Gale  with  a  basket 
full  to  The  House ;  though,  mayve,  the  like  is 
at  them  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Clucas,  but  why  take  the 
trouble  ?  I  think  Jemmy  Cleator  is  bringing 
them  every  morning  now." 

"I  wouldn't  wonder!  He's  a  pushin'  fel 
low — uncommon  pushin'.  I'm  knowin'  direct 
ly  the  like  of  him." 

"  And  he  might  feel  hurt,  if  we  did  not  buy 
them." 

"Bless  my  heart!  let  him  cure  himself 
then.  Aw,  yes,  a  pushin'  fellow ;  but  no 
matter,  no  matter.  Captain,  here  is  a  soldier 
for  you  ";  and  he  set  forward  a  basket  contain 
ing  a  tremendous  lobster;  "brought  him  up 
this  mornin'.  Look  at  him  ;  the  big  he  is,  and 
the  strong,  and  the  wise!  No  drill  needed  for 
him,  Captain !  He  was  born  terrible ;  aw, 
and  wicked  enough  whatever  else,  and  ready 
armed !  " 


THE   C6TTA6E  LV  GLEN-MELLISti.         49 

Captain  Pennington  stooped  and  examined 
the  creature  with  interest.  "  You  are  right, 
Ruthie,"  he  said.  "  If  Her  Majesty  could 
only  arm  her  soldiers  as  nature  has  armed  this 
fellow,  what  fighters  she  would  have  !  What 
terrible  claws !  And  his  eyes  see  before  and 
behind,  and  his  antennae  have  the  organ  of 
touch  at  their  extremities,  and  of  smelling  and 
hearing  at  their  base  !  " 

"Is  it  thrue  you're  tellin',  Captain?" 

"  He  is  parading  his  learning,  Mr.  Clucas. 
Do  not  believe  him." 

"  It  is  true  nevertheless,  Harriet." 

"  Perhaps  so,  but  mortals  would  rather  not 
smell  with  all  their  fingers,  George.  Lobsters 
are  not  to  be  envied,  are  they,  Mary?  " 

"  Fish  here,  and  fish  there,  smokin'  and 
dryin' — what  would  I  do  with  more  noses  than 
one,  Miss  Harriet  ?  The  bad,  the  bad,  it 
would  be  for  fisher-folk." 

"  I  wonder  you've  got  the  face,  Mollie !  If 
I  didn'  know  nothin',  I'd  take  aise " ;  then 
going  to  the  door  open  towards  the  back  of 
the  house,  Ruthie  vociferated  Manx  at  Gale, 
until  the  young  fisher  came  with  a  string  of 
herring  so  fresh  and  firm  and  brilliant,  that 


|6  PERT  OF  CLAY. 

the  daintiest  lady  need  not  have  hesitated  to 
touch  them. 

Gale  blushed  when  he  saw  the  company,  but 
he  touched  his  forehead  with  his  vacant  hand, 
and  sharply  told  Bella  to  put  the  fish  in  a 
clean  towel,  and  carry  them  to  The  House. 
To  command  his  sister  was  one  of  Gale's  nat 
ural  privileges,  and  he  did  not  dream  that  he 
was  making  Captain  Pennington's  blood  tingle 
with  his  authoritative  tone. 

But  perhaps  Harriet  noticed  the  unspoken 
championship,  for  she  said  :  "  I  will  take  them, 
Bella.  Put  them  in  a  basket,  ma  chree.  Come, 
there  is  no  more  to  be  said.  I  have  made  up 
my  mind." 

"  Of  coorse,  of  coorse !  The  quality  has 
their  own  way,  Gale.  Don't  be  lookin'  black, 
lad,  and  are  you  seein'  the  captain  ?  Bless 
you !  a  puffic  gentleman  grown.  What  ca 
pers  you  two  were  at,  colloguin  like,  years 
ago  ;  hard  to  forget,  is  them  !  " 

Gale  touched  his  forehead  again,  but  he 
made  no  further  advances  upon  the  capers  of 
past  years.  And  Captain  Pennington's  polite 
questions  did  not  seem  to  encourage  a  renewal 
of  them.  Gale  felt  this,  and  the  hot  flush 


THE  COTTAGE  IN  GLEtt-MELLlStt.         51 

mounted  to  his  face,  as  he  stood  embarrassed 
at  the  open  door.  The  soldier  and  the  fisher, 
scanning  each  other  with  a  vague  admiration 
and  hostility,  made  a  remarkable  contrast. 
For  Gale  Clucas  was,  after  his  own  fashion, 
quite  as  handsome  a  man  as  George  Penning- 
ton,  though  Gale's  fashion  was  of  a  more  prim 
itive  kind.  For  he  was  simply  a  young  blond 
giant,  dressed  in  blue  flannel,  and  spangled  to 
the  waist  with  the  moonlight  glimmer  of  the 
herring  scales. 

He  was  glad  enough  to  excuse  himself  from 
any  further  compliments  and  questions,  and 
indeed  every  one  was  sensible  of  the  strained 
and  restless  feeling  peculiar  to  first  visits, 
when  long  broken  threads  are  to  be  lifted,  and 
a  past  association  examined  in  the  light  of 
new  circumstances  and  changed  feelings  and 
ideas. 

During  the  visit  Bella  had  scarcely  lifted 
her  eyes  from  the  cakes  she  was  patting  and 
rolling,  and  George  had  not  appeared  to  pay 
much  attention  to  her,  yet  no  movement  of 
her  graceful  head  or  body  had  escaped  him. 
The  thousand  pounds  and  all  of  life  it  repre 
sented,  duties,  discipline,  and  social  claims  and 


§i  PZKT  dp  cUV. 

advantages,  he  cast  them  behind  him.  It  was 
the  new,  the  present  moment,  the  tangible 
gratification,  that  had  value  to  George  Pen- 
nington.  Besides,  other  and  fresh  thoughts 
came  into  his  mind  as  he  walked  silently  up 
Glen-Mellish  with  his  sister,  and  being  fresh, 
they  possessed  a  paramount  interest. 

"  It  was  not  a  very  pleasant  visit,  George," 

"I  don't  know  why  we  made  it.  Old  Clucas 
and  his  wife  are  vulgar.  How  is  it  that  in 
youth  one  tolerates,  and  even  likes,  such 
people?" 

"Perhaps  youth  is  naturally  vulgar:  to 
row,  to  cast  the  nets,  to  fling  a  trout  line, 
to  run,  to  jump,  to  swim,  it  seems  to  me 
these  are  the  ideals  of  youth.  They  are  mere 
animal  accomplishments,  some  of  them  are 
performed  better  by  animals  than  by  men  ; 
but  when  books  and  travel  have  refined  the 
nature,  the  old  ideals  lose  their  place.  I  think 
you  disappointed  Ruthie  and  Mary,  and  per 
haps  Gale  more  than  any  one.  You  were  not 
like  yourself,  George." 

"  I  could  not  put  down  a  singular  line  of 
thought.  I  wish  I  knew  the  man  who  has 
spent  so  much  money  on  me.  Why  did  he  do 


TtJE  COTTAGE  IN  GLEK-MELLISH.         SJ 

it?  Is  he  my  father?  Don't  you  see,  Harriet, 
where  such  reflections  may  lead  to?" 

"  If  they  lead  to  any  unkind  suspicions, 
don't  follow  them  a  moment,  George." 

"Oh,  but,  you  know,  I  must  follow  them. 
If  it  was  that  man's  interest  or  pleasure  to  put 
me  through  the  best  schools  in  England,  to 
give  me  two  years'  travel,  and  then  buy  me  a 
commission  in  a  cavalry  regiment,  he  ought  to 
have  done  more,  or  not  have  done  so  much. 
I  hope  my  leaving  the  regiment  will  be  a  great 
disappointment  to  him.  I  would  not  have  the 
thousand  pounds  now;  no,  not  for  ten  thousand." 

"  I  am  amazed  at  your  folly,  George." 

"  Why  should  you  be  amazed  ?  Is  folly  un 
usual?  Are  fools  a  rarity?  On  the  contrary, 
you  will  find  that  fools  are  the  daily  work  of 
nature,  her  vocation,  if  she  makes  a  man, 
she  loses  by  it." 

"  To  be  as  petted  as  a  school-boy,  as 
unreasonable  as  a  spoiled  child,  to  affect  an 
indifference  you  do  not  feel,  to  treat  the  turn 
ing-point  of  your  life  as  if  you  were  deciding 
a  game  of  cricket,  is  wicked,  I  think.  And  I 
know  that  you  have  parts  and  cultivation ; 
you  are  not  an  ignorant  fop." 


54  F£ET  OF  CLAY. 

"  My  dear  Harriet,  have  you  not  followed 
out  my  observation  ?  Let  me  tell  you,  that 
genuine  folly  is  only  attained  by  studious 
search.  A  natural  fool  is  a  poor  speci 
men.  To  be  really  eminent  in  that  r61e,  it 
is  necessary  to  be  a  man  of  parts  and  cultiva 
tion." 

"  I  will  not  keep  up  a  useless  and  heartless 
badinage  with  you.  You  pain  me  very  much, 
George  ;  and  if  any  one  else  should  say  that 
you  were  an  eminent  fool,  how  angry  you 
would  be  !  " 

He  answered  with  a  light,  mocking  laugh, 
and  the  rest  of  the  walk  was  finished  in  silence. 
In  the  hall  they  parted  ;  Harriet  went  upstairs, 
and  George  into  the  parlor.  His  mother  was 
sitting  in  a  large  chair  by  the  window.  He 
had  not  expected  to  see  her  there,  and  her 
presence  gave  his  mood  a  slight  shock.  He 
had  been  thinking  hard  thoughts,  and  her 
calm,  open  face  meeting  his  was  like  a  sharp 
denial  of  them. 

She  was  small  and  slight,  with  white  hair 
carefully  arranged  around  a  delicate  face.  Her 
color  was  lovely,  her  mouth  sensitive  and  ex 
pressive,  her  eyes  dark  and  tender.  She  was 


COTTAGE  IN  GLEN-MELUS!!.       $$ 

richly  dressed,  and  her  whole  appearance  gave 
the  idea  of  refinement  and  repose. 

"  My  dear  George." 

"  Good-morning,  mother.  I  am  glad  to  see 
you  here."  He  kissed  her,  and  then  added: 
"  I  walked  with  Harriet  down  Glen-Mellish. 
We  went  as  far  as  the  cottage  of  Ruthie 
Clucas." 

"  Did  you  see  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed ;  and  Mary,  and  Gale,  and 
Bella.  Gale  is  very  handsome." 

"  And  Bella  also.  Her  face  is  not  of  the  or 
dinary  Manx  type,  and  many  do  not  admire  its 
irregularity  and  fleeting  color  ;  but  I  think  her 
beautiful." 

"  I  dare  say  she  is  :  she  scarcely  lifted  her 
eyes.  I  believe  she  was  making  bread  of  some 
kind.  Mother,  I  am  not  thinking  of  Bella 
Clucas  at  present.  If  you  are  quite  able,  I 
should  like  to  get  my  own  affairs  settled.  I 
never  enjoy  myself  in  an  atmosphere  of  un 
certainty." 

"  I  am  quite  willing  to  discuss  your  affairs, 
George.  Have  you  anything  fresh  to  tell 
me  ?  " 

"  No,     I   made  a  clean  breast  on    Monday 


night.  That  paper  of  Penrith's  is  the  worst 
thing  I  ever  did.  But  Penrith  is  safe  and  hon 
orable.  He  loved  me,  too.  Poor  fellow  !  I 
feel  sorry  when  I  think  how  cut  up  he  was." 

"  I  would  not  name  that  transaction  un 
necessarily,  George.  Though  I  am  not  Pen 
rith,  I  can  assure  you  I  have  been  cut  up,  as 
you  call  it,  also.  And  I  think  I  love  you, 
George,  in  a  way  that  no  other  human  being 
does,  or  can." 

"  I  know  it,  mother.  If  I  had  not  known 
it,  should  I  have  come  with  all  my  faults  and 
troubles  to  you  ?  Harriet  says  you  think  I 
should  sell  out,  and  pay  my  debts.  I  think  so, 
too.  I  will  write  to  Jacques  this  afternoon  to 
attend  to  the  matter  at  once.  I  have  a  lot  of 
Turkish  and  Persian  rugs,  they  can  go,  too  ; 
the  vases  and  coins  I  bought  in  Rome  I 
should  like  to  keep,  and  my  books  I  cannot 
part  with." 

"  There  is  no  need  to  part  with  any  of  your 
personal  treasures.  I  do  not  want  to  make 
your  punishment  harder  than  is  necessary, 
George." 

"  I  do  not  think  it  any  particular  punishment 
to  leave  the  regiment.  It  is  too  fine  a  place 


THE   COTTAGE  IN  GLEN-MELLISH.         57 

for  a  beggar  like  me.  A  young  man  is  to  be 
pitied  who  is  pitched  into  its  style  with  empty 
pockets." 

"  Stop,  George.  You  had  a  handsome  allow 
ance.  There  are  officers  in  the  same  regi 
ment  with  much  less.  I  ascertained  that, 
before  I  fixed  the  amount  I  thought  suffi 
cient." 

"  Oh !  You  fixed  it !  I  understood  from 
Harriet  that  you  had  not  paid  either  for  my 
education  or  my  commission." 

"  Harriet  told  you  I  said  that  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  wish  she  had  not.  I  must  have  been  very 
troubled  to  have  spoken  to  her  about  money 
matters  at  all." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  who  paid  my  bills  ?" 

"  No.     I  shall  never  tell  you  that." 

"  There  it  is !  "  he  cried.  "  If  I  did  not  owe 
a  penny,  I  would  not  go  back  to  my  company ! 
How  do  you  think  it  feels  for  a  fellow  not  to 
know  who  he  is?  There  are  the  Cumberland 
Penningtons,  and  the  Yorkshire  Penningtons, 
and  the  Penningtons  who  are  nobodies  in  par 
ticular.  Every  week  I  am  asked  about  some 
of  the  lot.  I  don't  know  what  to  say." 


5 8  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

"  Tell  the  truth.  Say  your  branch  of  the 
family  is  in  the  Isle  of  Man." 

"  My  branch  !     Two  women  and  myself." 

"  As  this  conversation  has  been  forced  upon 
me,  I  will  tell  you  now  what  I  shall  tell  you  if 
it  recurs  a  thousand  times.  Ask  for  no  in 
formation  but  what  is  freely  given  you.  Be 
thankful  that  others  are  willing  to  suffer  what 
you  must  else  have  endured." 

"  Mother  !  Have  I  any  right  to  the  name  I 
bear,  or  is  it  an  assumed  one?  This  much  I 
ought  to  know,  at  any  rate." 

Mrs.  Pennington  flushed  scarlet,  and  rising 
hastily  said,  "  Wait  here  a  few  minutes." 

It  was  evident  she  was  going  to  leave  the 
room,  and  he  offered  her  his  arm.  She  waved 
him  away  with  a  haughty  and  peremptory 
movement.  There  was  not  the  shadow  of 
tears  in  her  eyes,  not  the  faintest  expression, 
of  injury,  not  the  most  fleeting  air  of  reproach 
in  her  face,  or  manner,  or  voice  :  but  George 
Pennington  felt,  in  a  moment,  an  overwhelming 
pity  for  his  mother,  and  an  overwhelming 
contempt  for  himself. 

"  It  was  a  brutal  question  to  ask,"  he  mut 
tered  ;  "  and  yet  it  is  as  well  asked  as 


THE   COTTAGE  IN  GLEN-MELLISH.         59 

thought."  Still,  when  his  mother  re-entered 
the  room,  he  could  scarcely  meet  her  eyes. 
She  had  a  couple  of  papers  in  her  hand,  and 
she  offered  them  to  him. 

"  George,  here  is  my  marriage  contract,  and 
the  certificate  of  your  baptism.  Satisfy  your 
own  eyes,  since  you  do  not  credit  my  words." 

"  I  will  not  look  at  them.  Forgive  me, 
mother.  Forgive  me  if  you  can.  I  shall 
never  forgive  myself." 

She  laid  the  papers  down  upon  the  table, 
looking  at  them  with  aversion  and  fear.  But 
in  a  few  moments  she  controlled  all  signs  of 
emotion,  and  turned  them  over  with  an  indif 
ference  that  was  evidently  the  result  of  a  domi 
nant  will. 

"  The  date  is  more  than  twenty-five  years 
ago  ;  you  see,  George — "  and  then  she  read 
aloud,  slowly  pointing  out  the  words  with  her 
finger:  'Ante-Nuptial  Contract  between  Al 
fred  Saville  Pennington  and  Mabel  Broug 
ham  ' — Brougham  is  my  family  name,  George." 

"I  desire  no  further  explanation,  mother.  I 
hope  you  will  forgive  me  for  the  question." 

"  Perhaps  it  was  natural,  on  this  subject,  to 
want  more  proof  than  my  word.  I  do  not  wish 


60  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

to  think  more  unkindly  of  you  than  you  de 
serve.  George,  many  years  ago,  I  suffered  a 
great,  I  will  say,  wrong.  Nothing  can  ever 
put  the  wrong  right ;  nothing,  there  is  no 
possible  atonement,  or  restitution  ;  all  that  re 
mains  is  silence.  The  more  perfect  the  si 
lence,  the  deeper  the  oblivion,  the  better  it  is 
for  you,  and  Harriet,  and  myself.  I  was 
always  averse  to  your  leaving  this  retreat. 
Others  thought  differently.  The  experiment 
has  been  a  failure,  as  I  expected  it  would  be. 
Take  a  summer's  holiday,  and  let  Jacques  ar 
range  your  debts.  Then  begin  the  study  of 
the  law  with  Daniel  Teare." 

"  I  have  often  thought  of  going  to  Aus 
tralia." 

"  It  would  kill  me  if  you  went  there." 

"To  the  United  States,  then?" 

"  Why  do  you  wish  to  expatriate  yourself  ? 
There  is  no  reason  for  it,  none  whatever  ;  and 
there  are  many  reasons  why  you  should  remain 
in  England." 

"  I  know  of  none." 

"  Harriet,  myself,  and  other  possibilities 
which  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  name.  Cannot 
you  take  me  on  trust,  George?  " 


THE   COTTAGE  IN  GLEN-MELLISH.          6 1 

"  Of  course  I  can,  mother.  I  am  not,  as  a 
general  thing,  inclined  to  go  a  motive-hunting; 
and  as  for  the  future,  it  is  an  unknown  coun 
try  ;  perhaps  an  enemy's  country.  I  have 
had  no  orders  yet  to  invade  it.  The  present  is 
sufficient  and  when  the  autumn  comes — ' 

"  You  will  go  to  Teare's  office  ?  " 

"  The  autumn  is  days  and  weeks  away.  This 
summer  I  will  take  short  views  of  life,  and 
pleasant  ones.  I  wish,  mother,  I  could  do 
something  in  extenuation  of  my  folly." 

"  God  asks  nothing  but  sorrow  for  our  sin, 
shall  I  ask  more  than  heaven  ?  If  you  are 
sorry,  George,  I  have  forgiven,  and  will  forget. 
Try  and  be  happy  in  the  sinless  pleasures 
around  you. 

'  The  Sisyphus  is  he  whom  noise  and  strife 
Seduce  from  all  these  soft  retreats  of  life.'  " 

"  I  will  be  no  Sisyphus,  mother.  I  will  find  on 
the  sea,  and  among  the  fishers,  plenty  of  pleas 
ure  ;  if  my  anticipations  are  not  dashed,  as  they 
generally  are,  'by  some  left-handed  god'; 
don't  look  so  horrified  ;  I  was  only  quoting  the 
Oedipus,  mother." 

He  kissed  her  hands  and  looked  so  bright 


62  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

and  handsome,  that  her  heart  grew  light  with 
renewed  hope  ;  and  she  bade  fear  keep  outside 
her  dwelling. 

Oh,  blessed  Hope !  Amid  the  never-fulfilled 
desires,  the  vain  strivings,  the  unspeakable 
blunders  of  life,  what  should  we  do  without 
thee  ?  Perhaps  indeed  thou  art  a  flatterer ! 
But  at  least  thou  art  a  pleasant  and  honest 
one,  for  Hope,  and  only  Hope,  flatters  the 
poor  and  the  miserable. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
BELLA'S  OPINION. 

Tis  our  own  wisdom  moulds  our  state, 
Our  faults  and  virtues  make  our  fate." 

In  whatever  character  the  Book  of  Fate  is  writ, 
'Tis  well  we  understand  not  it ; 
We  should  grow  mad  with  too  much  learning  there. 

"  The  fate  of  Love  is  such, 
That  still  it  sees  too  little,  or  too  much." 


M 


RS.  PENNINGTON  was  scarcely 
pleased  at  her  son's  ready  acceptance  of 
the  destiny  which  he  had  called  unto  himself. 
There  is  a  kind  of  making  the  best  of  things, 
which  is  really  making  the  worst  of  them,  and 
she  was  conscious  that  George's  easy  satisfac 
tion  with  her  plans  for  his  future  came  from 
thoughtless  indifference,  and  a  wish  to  shirk 
all  responsibility  for  the  consequences  of  his 
previous  conduct. 

Indeed  Captain  Pennington  longed  to  be  rid 
of  the  past.     He  had  mismanaged  all  his  ad 
vantages.     He  was  aware  that  an  undefinable 
63 


64  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

suspicion  had  touched  his  name.  His  com 
rades  in  some  way  chilled  the  air  around  him. 
He  knew  that  he  had  fallen  in  their  estimation, 
though  no  one  had  told  him  so.  And  without 
taking  the  trouble  to  reason  on  the  matter,  he 
frankly  admitted  to  himself  that  this  social  fall, 
however  intangible  it  might  be,  was  generally, 
within  a  certain  circumference,  a  final  one. 
He  was  aware  that  if  a  man  loses  caste  in  his 
regiment  only  some  military  miracle,  only  a 
deed  done  with  life  in  the  hand,  can  retrieve 
what  has  been  forfeited;  and  George  Penning- 
ton  had  no  heroic  longings.  If  a  great  oppor 
tunity  had  found  him  out,  he  would  have 
made  a  hasty  excuse,  and  slipped  behind  it  in 
some  way  or  other. 

And  though  life  in  the  little  Island  of  Man 
did  not  promise  much,  he  looked  at  its  possi 
bilities  with  the  hopefulness  of  his  twenty-five 
years,  and  with  that  faith  in  fortune  which  is 
the  complaisant  habit  of  youth.  There  was,  to 
begin  with,  a  handsome  and  well-ordered 
house  in  which  he  promised  himself  to  reign 
paramount.  His  mother's  affection  for  him 
would  bear  such  assumption  he  did  not  doubt, 
and  Harriet  was  only  a  girl,,  girls  naturally 


BELLA'S  OPINION.  65 

submitted  to  their  brothers.  Of  course  Har 
riet  had  usurped  many  privileges  during  his 
absence,  but  if  he  and  Harriet  had  for  the 
future  to  dwell  together,  he  must  resume  his 
prerogatives  and  insist  upon  being  regarded  as 
the  eldest  son  and  the  eldest  brother.  And  he 
did  not  dislike  the  prospect  of  this  struggle 
for  supremacy  with  the  women  of  the  house, 
it  was  a  kind  of  warfare  for  which  his  weapons 
were  always  ready. 

Then  there  was  a  good  regiment  stationed 
at  Castletown.  The  officers  would  be  gentle 
men.  He  could  doubtless  join  their  mess 
occasionally,  and  however  loyally  they  served 
Her  Majesty,  they  were  also  likely  to  be  good 
subjects  of  those  four  paper  kings  whose 
authority  is  lost  in  Oriental  myth.  Besides 
these  two  sources  of  amusement,  he  had  his 
books ;  and  he  could  write  verses  and  practise 
Weber's  overtures. 

Then  there  was  the  sea.  He  was  very  fond 
of  the  sea  when  it  was  calm,  and  he  could 
drift  out  with  the  tide,  and  in  with  the  tide, 
and  smoke  and  dream  sonnets  to  the  lazy 
whish  and  lap  of  the  ocean.  He  felt  that  to 
thoroughly  enjoy  this  kind  of  sailing  he  must 


66  FEE  T  OF  CLA  Y. 

find  a  fisher-boy  to  hold  the  oars,  and  he  re 
membered  Gale  Clucas,  but  not  with  approba 
tion.  Gale  had  not  pleased  him  during  his 
morning  visit  to  the  Clucas'  cottage.  He  had 
caught  a  look  which  really  seemed  to  be 
equally  made  up  of  suspicion  and  dislike. 

"But  I  cannot  allow  myself  to  quarrel  with 
Gale  Clucas,"  he  said  in  a  soft  voice;  "for 
there  is  Bella!  Sweet  Bella!  Beautiful 
Bella ! " 

Then  he  knew  that  Bella  was  the  first  and 
the  last  of  his  motives.  However  many  he 
might  put  before  her,  however  much  he  might 
magnify  others,  Bella  Clucas  was  the  first  and 
the  last  of  all  his  intentions.  He  made  no  ef 
fort  to  put  the  temptation  from  him.  He  told 
himself  frankly  that  his  pursuit  of  her  would 
be  unjustifiable,  in  every  respect,  and  would  be 
resisted  upon  every  side.  Harriet  had  warned 
him  of  her  opposition,  he  felt  that  Gale  would 
be  unmanageable,  and  as  for  old  Ruthie,  if  he 
should  once  become  suspicious,  he  would  be 
come  dangerous.  Captain  Pennington  ad 
mitted  these  facts,  and,  while  admitting  them, 
smiled  scornfully  at  the  position.  It  appeared, 
after  all,  a  little  ridiculous  to  find  a  fisherman's 


BELLA'S    OPINION.  67 

daughter  so  hard  to  approach.  But  then  he 
reflected,  "  Bella  is  on  my  side,  and  we  two 
against  all  odds." 

He  was  walking  slowly  about  his  room  to 
these  thoughts,  and  in  the  course  of  this 
exercise  he  stopped  at  one  of  the  windows 
overlooking  the  orchard  side  of  the  garden. 
There  were  two  people  under  the  cherry-trees. 
One  of  them  was  his  sister  Harriet.  She  had  a 
pale  blue  dress  on,  a  dress  of  the  exquisite 
color  of  the  forget-me-not.  Her  long  brown 
curls  were  pushed  behind  her  ears,  a  gold 
ornament  gleamed  upon  her  neck,  and  gold 
bracelets  glinted  with  every  movement  of  her 
hands.  Her  face  was  rosy  and  love-lit,  reflect 
ing  the  eager  happiness  it  found  in  that  of  her 
companion. 

He  was  a  soldier,  and  wore  a  very  becoming 
uniform.  And  he  was  strong  and  tall,  with 
short,  curling  brown  hair,  and  a  face  bronzed 
by  exposure,  and  a  smile  of  the  kindest  good 
nature. 

"  That  is  Colonel  Sutcliffe,  I  suppose.  Both 
mother  and  Harriet  wrote  me  something  about 
him.  I  have  forgotten  what  it  was  ;  and  no 
wonder,  I  was  so  bothered  about  my  own 


68  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

affairs  at  the  time.  But  there  is  no  need  of 
explanations,  a  look  at  the  two,  as  they  stand 
there,  is  enough  to  tell  the  tale.  Well,  as  the 
head  of  the  family  he  will  have  to  apply  to  me, 
and  if  he  does  not  make  himself  very  agree 
able  indeed,  he  will  be  sony  for  it." 

The  thought  gave  him  a  new  sense  of  power. 
He  understood  that  Sutcliffe,  being  so  evi 
dently  in  love  with  his  sister,  would  be  likely 
to  favor  all  his  plans  and  advances,  and  he 
immediately  began  to  calculate  in  what  man 
ner  he  could  best  use  affection  so  innocent  and 
so  sincere.  For  to  George  Pennington  men  and 
women  had  all  a  positive  value ;  they  were  to 
profit  his  finances,  or  to  gratify  his  senses,  or 
to  add  something  to  his  importance.  And  he 
gave  no  one  credit  for  any  nobler  or  more 
unselfish  motive;  his  own  nature  being  so  low, 
he  necessarily  lacked  the  standard  by  which  to 
measure  higher  souls. 

Colonel  Sutcliffe  was,  however,  disposed  to 
like  the  brother  of  his  intended  wife.  His 
beauty,  his  gracious  manners,  and  that  fine 
polish  which  had  been  unconsciously  acquired 
among  companions  who  lived  on  the  highest 
social  peaks,  always  made  at  first  a  pleasant 


BELLA'S   OPINION.  69 

impression.  And  at  this  time  Captain  Pen- 
nington  was  desirous  of  making  a  pleasant  im 
pression.  He  gave  to  the  dinner-table  a  tone 
of  festivity,  and  was  so  delightful  a  host,  that 
Harriet,  though  proud  of  her  brother,  felt  a 
vague  fear  for  her  lover.  His  simple,  honest 
nature  responded  so  heartily  to  the  new  influ 
ence,  and  if  it  should  prove  to  be  less  simple 
and  honest  than  its  appearance,  she  could  feel 
that  in  some  way  it  would  be  dangerous. 

But  she  put  the  dumb  fear  down,  and  de 
lighted  herself  in  the  cordiality  which  was  so 
evident.  "Why  should  I  be  suspicious  until  I 
have  a  reason  ?  "  Such  a  question  is  always 
more  easily  asked  than  answered,  and  it  re 
turned  again  and  again  for  satisfaction  until 
Harriet  was  irritated  by  its  persistence.  Usu 
ally  after  dinner  Harriet  and  her  lover  seated 
themselves  by  the  piano,  and  under  cover  of 
some  soft  accompaniment  or  adagio  move 
ment  had  delightful  bits  of  conversation  or 
equally  delightful  pauses.  Then  the  still  air 
seemed  to  absorb  the  tender  syllables,  and  as 
the  gloaming  deepened,  the  music  became 
slower  and  softer  and  the  whole  room  sensi 
tive.  This  was  the  hour  their  souls  drew 


?d_  PEE  T  OF  CLAV. 

closest  to  each  other,  the  hour  both  loved  best 
of  all ;  but  George  Pennington  was  incapable  of 
divining  its  tender  mystery,  and  with  a  gay 
laugh  and  a  merry  quotation  he  boldly  inter 
rupted  it,  and  carried  Sutcliffe  away  with  him 
for  a  walk. 

Harriet  from  the  garden  gate  watched  them 
down  the  Castletown  road.  "Why  should  I 
be  suspicious?  "  she  asked  herself  again;  and 
still  the  answer  was  uncertain  and  unsatisfac 
tory.  She  turned  towards  the  house  with  a 
slow  and  irresolute  step,  and  her  eyes,  attracted 
probably  by  other  eyes  watching  her,  perceived 
among  the  standards  of  raspberry-bushes  a 
woman  gathering  fruit.  She  went  with  some 
haste  and  some  annoyance  to  her. 

"You  here,  Bella?" 

"  Here  for  all,  Miss  Harriet.  My  mother 
was  sending  me.  It's  sick  she  is,  and  needin' 
the  fruit  as  if  it  was  meat  and  drink." 

"  Shall  I  help  you  to  gather  it  ?  " 

"  I  said  to  mother,  Miss  Harriet  isn't  wantin' 
me  to  come  near  at  all.  Likin'  or  not  likin' 
me,  it's  as  much  as  her  love  will  bear." 

"  A  word  is  a  word,  Bella,  and  I  gave  you 
one  about  staying  away  while  my  brother  is  at 


BELLA'S   OPINION-.  7! 

home.  It  is  for  your  good,  and  as  for  your 
seeing  me,  I  would  come  to  the  cottage,  you 
know,  and  it  is  for  your  good,  Bella." 

"I  wouldn'  trust  but  it  is,  Miss;  or  you 
think  so  any  way,  but  a  girl  is  knowin'  for  her 
self.  Never  fear!  And  that  is  natural  and 
'scusable  too." 

"  Bella,  have  I  not  always  been  your  friend  ?" 

"A  friend  shouldn'  be  mistrustin'  me  no 
way ;  but  there's  no  accountin',  though." 

"  When  a  handsome  man  steps  between  two 
women  there  is  no  accounting,  Bella.  And 
mind  this,  I  will  take  it  very  ill,  ma  chree,  if 
you  turn  me  over  for  George.  Give  me  one 
word  of  promise,  Bella,  that  you  will  not  listen 
to  his  beguiling  words,  and  I  will  believe  you 
for  ever." 

"Idikkilis,  Miss  Harriet!  What  are  you 
freckened  for?  I'm  fit  to  cry  at  the  way 
you're  talking.  You  shouldn'  be  judgin'  the 
why  and  the  for  that's  not  in  your  own  heart. 
How  can  you  be  knowin' them  ?  Suspicions! 
I  wouldn'  have  them,  Miss  Harriet." 

"  I  see  that  you  will  not  make  me  a  promise. 
I  will  not  ask  you  any  more.  Captain  Penning- 
ton  has  gone  to  Castletown  with  a  friend.  He 


72  F&ET  OF  CLAY . 

will  not  probably  be  back  until  late.  Gather 
the  berries  and  go  home,  for  the  glen  is  lonely 
and  gypsies  about,  I  am  told." 

"  What  do  you  mane,  Miss  Harriet?  You're 
hardly  knowin',  I  think.  Aw  dear,  but  I'm 
sorry,  terbil  sorry,  you're  so  unraysonable, 
and  shalterin'  your  ill  thoughts  behind  the 
kind  past  too." 

"  Good-night,  Bella.  I  see  you  are  deter 
mined  to  have  your  own  way,  and  I  suspect 
that  George's  way  is  your  way." 

"  I'm  intarmined  to  do  right,  allis  right,  Miss 
Harriet.  And  as  for  suspectin'—  chut  !  It's 
middlin'  bad  work,  middlin'  bad.  When  you 
know  the  wrong,  traa  thallure — time  enough." 

Both  girls  were  angry,  for  both  were  sensi 
ble  of  something  more  than  they  admitted. 
Harriet  was  indeed  anxious  to  prevent  her 
brother  bringing  trouble  or  danger  to  Bella, 
but  with  this  acknowledged  feeling  there  was 
one  unacknowledged,  a  sensitive  jealousy 
which  resented  any  outside  appropriation  of 
his  affections  or  companionship,  especially  by 
a  girl  whom  she  regarded  as  in  every  way  be 
low  his  condition.  And  Bella  was  conscious 
that  she  had  already  merited  suspicion,  but 


BELLA  'S    OPINION.  73 

she  did  not  feel  inclined  either  to  excuse  what 
had  transpired,  or  to  make  any  promises  for 
her  future  conduct. 

"  Promises  !  Indade  no  !  "  she  muttered. 
"What  for?  There's  things  I  wouldn' do  to 
save  my  life,  but  it's  not  me  that  will  make  a 
promise  about  them.  And  to  her,  chut ! 
She's  a  girl  all  as  one  as  I  am  a  girl.  Havin' 
1  seen  that  handsome  officer,  and  the  bend  of 
his  head,  and  the  love  shinin'  in  her  face  ? 
Quality  indade!  The  like  is  at  them.  When 
it's  love  we  are  all  middlin'  aequal,  God 
knows  it ! " 

The  small  basket  of  berries  was  over  her 
arm,  and  she  was  stepping  briskly  to  her 
thoughts  across  the  dim  gaery.  When  she 
entered  the  glen  she  was  still  under  their  in 
fluence.  Suddenly  she  arrested  herself  and 
stood  motionless.  A  little  below  her  a  figure 
was  slowly  walking  about  a  few  yards  of 
grassy  level  that  broke  the  rapid  descent.  His 
back  was  to  her,  but  she  knew  it  was  George 
Pennington,  and  she  knew  also  that  he 
was  waiting  for  her.  She  could  yet  retreat. 
She  had  the  impulse  to  do  so,  but  she 
was  not  a  girl  who  acted  upon  impulse, 


74  FEET  OF  CLAY, 

and  her  whole  nature  resisted  the  idea  of 
flight. 

"  What  will  I  run  for  !  Danger,  is  it ;  bless 
my  heart,  he  is  in  more  danger  than  I  am  ! 
And  if  I'm  runnin'  to-night  what  will  I  be 
doin'  to-morrow  ?  Every  day  that  is  dawnin' 
will  be  as  one.  And  what's  dangerous  ?  The 
smile  on  his  handsome  face  and  the  fine  words 
he'll  be  sayin,'  I'm  knowin'  them,  '  Sweet 
Bella,  and  it's  my  heart  that  is  breakin'  for  a 
sight  of  you.'  Folly  !  I'm  not  regardin'  such  ; 
warned  afore  and  mindin'  of  it,  and  able  to 
hold  my  own,  I  wouldn'  wonder,  Captain  Pen- 
nington  and  all." 

She  was  saying  these  words  as  Captain  Pen- 
nington  came  eagerly  to  meet  her.  Bella 
stood  still  and  looked  with  a  curious  tender 
ness  at  him.  This  was  the  man  who,  she  was 
assured,  meant  to  do  her  some  great  injury.  A 
smiling,  handsome  man,  with  a  figure  so  slight 
that  she  could  not  help  an  involuntary  com- 
.parison  with  her  own  splendid  proportions. 
Physically  she  felt  equal  to  him,  morally  she 
knew  herself  to  be  his  superior.  "  Lovin'  is 
understandin,'  "  she  thought ;  "  and  I  am 
knowiu'  the  man,  and  the  good  and  the  bad 


BELLA'S   OPINION.  75 

that's  in  him,  all  of  it."  The  thought,  rapid  as 
it  was,  gave  a  confident  pose  to  her  head,  an 
easy  self-reliance  to  her  manner,  that  George 
Pennington  felt  and  admired.  She  had  the 
influence  over  him  that  essentially  strong 
natures  have  over  essentially  weak  ones. 

And  in  the  soft  gray  light  she  looked 
exceedingly  noble  and  beautiful.  At  that 
moment  he  surrendered  everything  else  to 
the  one  determination  to  win  her  for  his  own. 
It  was  the  present  and  therefore  the  vital 
interest  of  his  life,  and  he  gave  himself  to  the 
purpose  with  that  wilful  and  unreasonable 
persistence  which  may  be  seen  in  spoiled 
children  determined  to  have  their  own  way. 

Bella  was  surprised  by  the  impetuosity  and 
sincerity  of  his  wooing.  She  had  suspected 
its  genuineness  before,  but  she  found  herself 
yielding  as  she  became  convinced  of  the  truth 
of  his  affection.  But  she  did  not  allow  him  to 
perceive  the  advantage  he  had  gained  ;  a  chill 
barrier  of  maidenly  reserve  kept  him,  though 
at  her  side,  far  apart  from  her.  She  made  him 
feel  without  a  word  that  even  the  support  of 
his  arm  would  not  be  taken,  and  that  the 
embrace  he  had  hoped  for  need  not  be  at- 


7  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

tempted.  As  for  the  firm,  rosy  lips,  he  under 
stood  that  they  were  guarded  from  his  touch 
by  a  sentiment  of  chastity  that  was  inviolable, 
and  a  will  which  he  had  no  power  against.  So 
no  princess  could  have  walked  with  him  more 
secure  in  herself,  more  respected  in  his  admi 
ration. 

When  they  came  to  the  Clucas  cottage 
Mary  Clucas  was  sitting  on  the  raised  stone 
step  at  the  open  door.  Her  face  was  turned 
to  the  glen,  and  had  the  look  of  one  waiting 
and  listening.  Indeed  she  had  been  watching 
for  her  daughter's  return,  and  rightly  suspi 
cious  as  to  the  reason  of  her  delay.  When  she 
saw  Captain  Pennington  with  her,  she  rose  and 
would  have  gone  into  the  house  without  a 
word,  had  he  not  pointedly  addressed  her : 

"You  see,  Mrs.  Clucas,  I  have  brought  Bella 
safely  home.  There  are  gypsies  in  the  glen,  I 
hear." 

"Aw,  yes,  and  I  wouldn'  trust  but  worse 
folk  than  gypsies  there." 

"  You  are  not  meaning  me,  surely,  Mrs. 
Clucas?  "  and  Captain  Pennington  laughed, 
but  not  as  if  the  laughter  was  pleasant  to  him. 

"  The  dark  it's  gettin',  sir,  and  the  late,  and 


BELLA'S    OPINION.  77 

poor  women  havin'  to  be  early  at  work  with 
the  herrin'  comin'  in  by  thousands,  thank 
God !  so  you'll  be  excusin'  us  ;  and  go  into 
the  house,  Bella." 

They  went  in  together,  and  Captain  Pen- 
nington  walked  up  the  glen  with  a  fight  in  his 
heart.  The  cold  anger  of  the  fisher's  wife  was 
something  beyond  his  experience.  And  Bella 
had  not  said  a  word  to  atone  for  it.  To  what 
purpose  had  he  been  so  honorable  with  her? 
"Any other  man  in  my  position, "he  muttered, 
and  then  he  struck  the  gorse  viciously  with  his 
walking-cane.  He  did  not  say  what  any  other 
man  would  have  done,  for  there  came  suddenly 
to  his  remembrance  the  self-contained  serenity 
of  Bella,  and  though  he  did  not  recognize  it 
as  the  armor  of  chaste  womanhood,  he  felt  it 
to  be  a  majesty  which  no  man  in  any  position 
could  defy. 

Mrs.  Clucas  was  silent  for  a  few  moments, 
and  Bella  was  equally  so.  She  closed  the 
house  door  and  drew  the  wooden  bolt  across 
it ;  then  she  turned  to  the  hearth  and  put  on 
what  peats  were  necessary  to  cover  and  pre 
serve  the  fire. 

"  Here   are   the   berries,  mother,   and    Mrs. 


78  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

Pennington  glad  to  send  them,  and  askin'  this 
and  that  about  you.  It's  feverish  you  are, 
she  says,  and  she's  sendin'  you  some  Jesuit's 
bark." 

"  Berries,  indeed,  and  what  not !  I'll  touch 
neither.  I  wouldn'  have  my  very  life  if  I  had 
to  send  some  one  into  temptation  and  sin  to 
get  it.  It's  thrue!  It's  thrue  !  " 

"  Do  you  mean  me,  mother?  " 

"  Of  coorse,  of  coorse  I  do." 

''  Aw,  then  a  saint  may  be  goin'  into  tempta 
tion  and  no  sin  with  it ;  and  if  it's  Captain 
Pennington  you  are  manin'  by  temptation — " 

"  Of  coorse,  who  else  ?  who  else?  " 

"  Mayve  then  the  temptation  isn'  beyand 
me.  Anyway,  I'm  tired  of  the  warnings  I'm 
getting  about  him  ;  tired  to  death.  When  I 
was  pullin'  the  berries,  Miss  Harriet  comes  in  a 
tantrum,  takin'  me  quite  on  the  sudden,  and 
all  she  can  say  is,  '  Promise  me  not  to  speak  to 
George.'  You  know  how  she  is,  the  thought 
in  her  heart  and  then  out  with  it  all." 

"  Miss  Harriet  has  been  kind,  allis  kind,  and 
Mrs.  Pennington  allis  kind  too." 

"Aw,  yes,  of  coorse!  The  quality  must 
have  their  notions,  and  I  was  the  fit  of  theirs, 


BELLA'S  OPINION.  79 

a  pretty  lass  for  the  young  lady  to  play 
with,  and  quick  at  the  uptake  and  doin'  them 
credit  for  all,  and  bringin'  them  news  and  the 
like,  just  a  break  and  a  change  in  their  days, 
and  welcome  for  it,  and  nobody  suitin'  them 
as  well — Aw  dear!  I'm  knowin'  azackly  now 
how  much  love  there  is." 

"  Chut !  Woman's  love  for  woman  is  just  a 
fancy.  Pretty  and  green,  it  is  like  Kewin's 
moss,  and  no  bottom  to  it ;  and  a  man 
between  them,  and  it's  gone  like  the  shadow 
of  a  flying  bird.  Miss  Harriet  has  her  lover 
now,  and  where  would  you  be?  Of  coorse,  he 
is  all  she's  carin'  for.  Why  should  you  be 
more  to  her  than  the  doll  she  liked  before 
you  ?  Chut !  You're  foolish  if  you  look 
for  it." 

"And  the  demandin'  she  was  to-night. 
Her  head  up,  and  her  proud  ways,  and  the 
fine  dress  on  her,  high  uncommon,  and  as 
cross  as  a  cat,  too.  And  all  about  her  brother. 
Mother,  I'm  knowin'  how  to  take  care  of 
myself.  Keep  that  thought  in  your  heart." 

"  But  the  talk  there  will  be,  Bella,  think  of 
that.  Kitty  Gale  and  Jenny  Callow  were 
speakin'  already." 


So  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

"Aw,  my  dear,  they'll  all  talk  while  their 
tongues  last.     I'm  not  mindin*  them." 

''  Mindin'  or  not  mindin',  there's  them  that 
will  make  you  take  notice.  Gale  has  a  black 
frown  on  his  face  already  if  the  name  he  hates 
is  mentioned ;  and  who  is  to  manage  your 
father  if  he  gets  the  notion  into  his  head  that 
wrong  is  comin'  to  you  from  yandher  way? 
He  was  never  really  likin'  them,  strangers 
and  all ;  and  it's  often  he  would  be  sayin', 
'  Kindness  !  Nonsense  !  We're  wantin'  no 
kindness  but  the  hand  of  God  and  the 
blessin'  that's  in  it ' ;  and  then  '  that  no 
Clucas  was  ever  seekin*  favor  from  rich  or 
poor.'  And  once,  bein'  in  a  temper,  he  was 
tellin'  the  lady  so,  and  she  answerin*  back, 
'  Mutual  kindness,  Mr.  Clucas ;  we  are  all 
dependent  on  one  another  in  some  way.' 
And  he  let  it  go  at  that,  but  not  content  for 
all,  nor  ever  was.  And  some  one  will  be. 
droppin'  a  word  in  his  ear  about  you  and  Cap 
tain  Pennington,  and  then  the  high  words,  and 
the  suspicions  that  will  come.  And,  aw  dear, 
when  Ruthie  Clucas  lets  his  temper  get  from 
under  his  foot,  God  knows  what !  Bella,  my 
lass,  if  you  brew  trouble  you'll  have  it  to  sup, 


BELLA'S    OPLVJQtf.  8l 

and  the  ebb  and  flow  of  it  must  go  through 
your  own  heart.  I'm  not  spakin'  of  others, 
but  surely  you'll  be  mindin'  them,  Gale  and 
your  father,  and  the  mother  that  loves  you  !  " 

"  Aw,  mother,  do  you  think  I'd  be  bringin' 
one  tear  to  your  eyes  ?  "  and  Bella  kissed  her 
with  such  fervent  tenderness  that  she  went 
quickly  to  sleep  with  a  smile  upon  her  face. 
For  women  generally  either  trust  in  all  points, 
or  suspect  in  all,  and  Mary  Clucas  was  thank 
ful  to  rest  herself  in  the  complete  satisfaction 
her  daughter's  assurance  gave  her. 

But  Bella  lay  awake  until  the  dawning. 
She  suspected  all  the  motives  of  her  friends, 
and  the  more  she  suspected  them  the  more 
angry  she  was  at  herself. 

"  The  consaited  I've  been !  The  fool  to 
think  they  were  carin'  for  me  ;  amusin'  them 
selves  they  were,  tryin'  to  make  a  lady  out  of 
a  fisher-girl,  and  laughin'  together,  no  doubt, 
at  the  notions  I  had.  Sarves  me  right,  of 
coorse,  of  coorse,  but  aw,  the  shame  of  it ! " 

To  such  thoughts  nights  wear  slowly  away. 
The  vacant  places  left  by  those  whom  we 
loved  or  trusted,  and  whom  we  believe  to  have 
deserted  or  wronged  us,  are  the  dreariest 


82  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

places  in  life.  When  the  soul  wanders  in 
them,  it  comes  back  to  duty  with  the  shadow 
of  loss  around  it,  and  Bella  met  her  mother  in 
the  morning,  wan  and  weary  from  such  useless 
going  to-and-fro  through  the  past. 


CHAPTER  V. 

SHADOWS  OF  COMING  EVENTS. 

"  The  wise  and  active  conquer  difficulties 
By  daring  to  attempt  them.     Sloth  and  folly 
Shiver  and  shrink  at  sight  of  toil  and  hazard, 
And  make  the  impossibility  they  fear." 

"  Ever  note,  Lucilius, 
When  love  begins  to  slacken  and  decay 
It  uses  an  enforced  ceremony ; 
There  are  no  tricks  in  plain  and  simple  faith." 

AFTER  Miss  Pennington  left  Bella  among 
the  raspberries  she  was  exceedingly  un 
happy.  She  was  sensible  that  she  had  made 
Bella  in  some  measure  a  relief  for  miserable 
suspicions  which  did  not  really  originate  with 
her.  But  Harriet  had  been  keenly  disap 
pointed.  She  had  looked  forward  to  a  few 
hours  of  delightful  intercourse  with  her  lover, 
and  her  lover  had  left  her  without  any  excuse, 
simply  to  gratify  a  caprice  of  George  Penning- 
ton's  regarding  a  horse  some  officer  wished 
to  sell. 

83 


84  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

She  was  angry  with  her  brother  for  not 
remembering  her  right  to  Colonel  Sutcliffe's 
company;  she  was  deeply  hurt  at  her  lover 
falling  so  easily  under  the  influence  of  qualities 
which  she  knew  to  be  so  superficial  and  un 
trustworthy.  "  One  happy  evening  that  I 
ought  to  have  had,  stolen  from  life  altogether," 
she  murmured.  "  It  can  never  be  made  up  to 
me.  Surely  George  might  have  left  my  lover 
alone;  but  he  thinks  that  everything  is  in  exis 
tence  only  for  his  use  and  pleasure." 

There  was  the  truth  of  her  own  experience 
in  this  complaint.  She  could  not  remember 
any  time  when  George  had  not  interfered  with 
the  arrangements  and  peace  of  the  house. 
Even  when  he  was  from  home  his  letters  gave 
the  tone  of  its  atmosphere.  Her  wardrobe 
had  been  curtailed  by  his  unreasonable  ex 
penses.  Summer  trips,  winter  visiting,  the 
number  of  their  guests  and  of  their  new  books, 
had  always  been  regulated  by  the  amount  of 
money  George  wanted.  His  had  been  "  the 
withdrawing  hand  "  in  all  her  pleasures.  And 
on  the  very  first  night  of  his  introduction 
to  her  lover  he  had  carried  him  away  from 
her. 


SHADOWS  OF   COMING  EVENTS.  85 

She  had  in  her  heart  a  burning  sense  of  in 
justice,  and  Bella,  happening  to  come  first  in 
her  way,  had  received  more  than  her  share  of 
the  complaint  she  could  not  restrain.  Then, 
as  a  natural  consequence,  instead  of  blaming 
her  own  restless  temper,  she  endeavored  to 
justify  the  words  she  had  said  :  "  Bella  was 
imprudent,  yes,  indeed,  almost  unmaidenly. 
George  would  be  excusable  in  addressing  any 
girl  who  so  visibly  put  herself  in  his  way." 
Poor  Bella  had  that  night  to  bear  not  only  the 
disapproval  which  belonged  to  herself,  but  also 
that  which  ought  to  have  been  visited  on 
Colonel  Sutcliffe. 

Until  nine  o'clock  she  indulged  a  hope  that 
he  would  release  himself  as  quickly  as  possible 
and  return  to  her.  She  wandered  about  and 
passed  from  one  thing  to  another,  like  a  key 
that  will  not  fit,  but  the  step  for  which  she 
listened  did  not  come.  When  all  hope  of  it 
was  over,  she  went  to  her  mother's  room.  She 
was  sure  of  sympathy,  or  at  least  of  com>- 
panionship  there.  And  sleep  was  not  in  her 
mind,  she  was  too  busy  with  her  vague  resent 
ment,  too  wide-awake  with  all  sorts  of  threat 
ening  suspicions,  to  submit  to  its  calm  forget- 


86  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

fulness.  She  did  not  even  desire  that  it  should 
lock  up  her  senses  from  their  care. 

She  opened  her  mother's  door  so  gently  that 
Mrs.  Pennington  was  unaware  of  her  entrance. 
Indeed  she  seemed  to  be  either  asleep  or  pre 
occupied  with  her  thoughts.  A  table  was 
drawn  to  her  side,  and  it  was  covered  with 
papers.  Her  head  was  thrown  backward 
against  her  chair,  her  eyes  shut  and  her  hands 
tightly  clasped  together.  But  a  glance  at  her 
face  told  Harriet  that  she  was  not  only  awake 
but  awake  to  sorrow.  She  stepped  softly  to 
her  side,  and  was  touched  with  pity  at  the 
anguish  on  her  face. 

"  Dearest  mother,  are  you  in  trouble?" 

"  My  child,  I  am  always  in  trouble."  She 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  sobbed 
\vith  that  piteous  restraint  that  long  experi 
ence  of  unshared  sorrow  gives. 

"  Tell  me,  mother." 

"You  cannot  help  me,  dear.  No  one  can 
help  me.  Forget  what  you  have  seen  and 
heard.  To-night  I  am  not  well.  These  hours 
of  depression  come  very  often  before  I  have  a 
headache." 

"  The     depression     brings     the     headache, 


SHADOWS  OF  COMING  EVENTS.  87 

mother.  The  mental  suffering  brings  the 
physical  suffering.  Let  me  share  your  grief, 
whatever  it  is.  I  am  a  woman  now." 

"  Ah,  child,  sorrow  comes  early  enough,  you 
need  not  ask  for  it !  And  you  cannot  help 
me,  Harriet.  The  cup  I  mingled  I  must  drink. 
Oh,  my  dear,  be  careful  of  your  actions,  for  the 
cup  of  consequences  is  sure  to  be  given  you. 
Not  even  the  Son  of  God,  though  accepting 
it  for  others,  was  permitted  to  put  it  aside." 

"  I  am  in  trouble  also,  mother.  May  I  sit 
with  you  ?  I  cannot  bear  to  be  alone,  and 
sleep  seems  ages  away." 

"  If  you  are  in  trouble  remain  here,  child. 
Turn  the  key  in  the  door,  and  light  the  can 
dles  ;  then  come  and  sit  by  me.  What  is 
grieving  you  ?  Surely  not  Colonel  Sutcliffe  ?  " 

"  George  is  grieving  me,  and  Bella,  and 
Colonel  Sutcliffe  also.  It  seems  to  me  as  if 
everything  in  life  was  wrong.  Nothing  has 
gone  pleasantly  since  George  came  home. 
You  would  say  that  he  was  the  most  delight 
ful  and  the  most  generous  of  men,  and  yet 
somehow  he  manages  to  take  every  one's 
happiness  to  increase  his  own." 

"  George  is  your  brother,  my  dear." 


88  fEET  OF  CLAY. 

"  I  know  that,  I  feel  it  continually.  But 
George  is  not  my  mother,  and  my  lover, 
and  my  friend  also.  To-night  he  has  taken 
away  Colonel  Sutcliffe,  he  has  made  me  quarrel 
with  Bella,  and  I  feel  sure  that  only  George  is 
giving  you  a  heartache  now,  and  preparing  a 
headache  for  you  to-morrow.  Mother,  can  it 
be  right  to  let  George  exert  such  a  pernicious 
power?  You  have  authority  and  influence 
over  him,  and —  " 

"  Harriet,  I  have  neither.  Look  at  those 
papers.  They  are  bills  which  must  be  met. 
Hundreds  of  pounds  flung  away  upon  articles 
of  folly  and  worthlessness !  Either  he  does 
not  believe  what  I  have  told  him  about  my 
resources,  or  he  is  perfectly  indifferent  to  the 
humiliating  restrictions  you  and  I  must  prac 
tise,  in  order  to  gratify  his  whims." 

"  Mother,  is  it  right  that  we  should  suffer  fof 
George's  whims  ?  " 

"  Right  or  wrong,  we  must  do  it.  That  it 
touches  you  is  my  great  sorrow.  I  am  afraid, 
Harriet,  you  will  have  to  put  off  your  marriage. 
I  cannot  give  you  all  I  promised,  and  also 
pay  these  claims." 

Harriet  lifted  the  bills  and  looked  at  them. 


SHADOWS  OF  COMING  EVENTS.  89 

They  were  for  jewelry  and  feasts  which  had 
been  given  to  singers  and  dancers,  for  car 
nages  and  expensive  wines,  for  endless  coats 
and  boots  and  hats,  for  rare  book-bindings,  for 
pictures  and  for  fine  pottery,  and  other  articles 
of  luxury. 

"  A  thousand  pounds  will  not  pay  these 
bills,  mother." 

"  Nor  two  thousand.  I  told  George  this 
morning  that  I  would  pay  nothing,  unless  I 
paid  the  whole.  I  found  these  bills  upon  my 
table  when  I  came  up  from  dinner — besides 
which,  there  is  another  of  ;£8oo." 

"  For  what  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell  you." 

"  Oh,  mother,  why  not  ?  " 

"  I  should  not  have  named  the  ;£8oo  at  all, 
only  that  I  wish  you  to  understand  how  im 
possible  it  is  for  me  to  have  your  marriage 
spoken  of,  for  at  least  two  or  three  years." 

"It  is  very  hard." 

"  It  is  indeed,  Harriet." 

"And  Colonel  Sutcliffe  may  be  ordered 
away  at  any  time.  If  he  goes,  our  marriage 
may  never  take  place.  To-night  he  left  me  to 
go  with  George  about  a  hunting-horse.  I  did 


9°  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

not  think  he  would  have  left  me  for  any 
thing." 

"  If  he  is  so  easily  persuaded,  perhaps  it  is 
well  to  give  him  a  longer  trial.  It  may  be  a 
good  thing  to  put  off  the  marriage." 

"  Oh,  mother,  it  is  so  easy  for  you  to  find 
good  in  the  evil  George  brings  us.  I  love 
Harry  Sutcliffe.  He  loves  me.  I  have  prom 
ised  to  marry  him  next  Christmas.  You  told 
me  I  might.  Can  I  not  keep  my  word  ?  " 

"  Harriet,  dear,  do  not  make  my  trouble 
greater  than  it  is.  Colonel  Sutcliffe  must 
wait.  A  love  that  cannot  wait  is  worth  little. 
Why  did  you  quarrel  with  Bella  ?  " 

"  Bella  has  behaved  badly.  George  is  bent 
upon  amusing  himself  with  making  love  to 
her,  and  though  I  gave  her  all  the  warning 
that  one  girl  can  give  to  another,  I  can  see 
that  it  is  useless.  Bella  has  been  twice  to  the 
house  since  he  came  home.  I  told  her  not  to 
come  at  all.  I  feel  that  there  is  going  to  be 
trouble  about  Bella  Clucas,  mother." 

"  I  hope  not." 

"  Don't  be  so  indifferent  to  what  I  say.  I 
can  assure  you  that  if  George  tries  to  make  a 
plaything  of  the  daughter  of  Ruthie  Clucas, 


SHADOWS  OF  COMING  EVENTS.  91 

he  must  calculate  upon  both  Ruthie  and  Gale 
taking  a  share  in  the  game." 

"  I  fear  so.  These  Manx  men  are  very 
proud." 

"  Proud  !  Yes,  and  they  have  a  sense  of 
morality  which  a  breath  will  stain.  If  wrong 
of  any  kind  comes  between  George  and  Bella 
Clucas,  Ruthie  would  think  little  of  his 
daughter's  life  if  her  good  name  was  gone ; 
and  I  would  not  give  a  pin's  fee  for  George's 
life,  if  he  had  to  settle  with  Bella's  father  or 
brother.  Surely,  mother,  you  can  see  how 
dangerous  meetings  must  be  between  a  hand 
some  girl  like  Bella  and  an  idle  man  like 
George,  especially  when  there  is  that  old  boy 
and  girl  fancy  to  build  upon.  I  can  remember 
how  you  disliked  it  before  George  went  away." 

"  That  was  different.  I  was  afraid  of  George 
taking  a  foolish  step  then  which  would  be  ir 
revocable.  He  knows  the  world  now,  and  is 
not  likely  to  throw  away  all  his  social  chances 
by  a  foolish  marriage." 

"  Mother,  George  would  throw  his  eternal 
hopes  away  for  some  present  gratification. 
Do  not  deceive  yourself  in  this  matter.  I  can 
see  that  Bella  is  in  love  with  George,  and 


92  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

George,  having  nothing  particular  to  do,  will 
thoroughly  enjoy  a  love  affair  which  every  one 
must  do  their  best  to  prevent." 

"  I  have  been  in  such  trouble  about  his 
debts,  that  I  have  not  thought  of  Bella  Clucas. 
I  declare  one  ought  never  to  do  a  kindness. 
Hands  full  of  trouble  is  its  reward.  It  is  only 
six  mouths  since  Lace  Corrin  was  at  the 
House  every  day — going  to  run  off  to  Amer 
ica — going  to  drown  himself,  and  all  for  love 
of  Bella  Clucas  !  And  the  worry  I  had  with 
the  man,  and  the  talking  to  the  girl,  and  the 
mother  coming  and  the  father  coming,  and  no 
end  to  Bella's  contradictions  and  sulks.  It 
was  a  proper  match  for  her,  and  she  ought  to 
have  married  Lace  Corrin,  as  every  one  ad 
vised  her." 

"  She  was  thinking  of  George.  She  knew 
he  was  coming  home." 

"  Harriet  Pennington !     The  idea  is  absurd." 

"  Not  so  much  so  as  you  think.  I  have 
seen  far  more  of  these  Manx  fishers  than  you 
have.  The  pure-blooded  ones  like  Ruthie 
Clucas  are  proud  as  Lucifer.  The  sea-kings, 
whose  children  they  are,  were  not  prouder. 
They  think  all  strangers,  no  matter  how 


SHADOWS  OF  COMING    EVENTS.  93 

wealthy  they  are,  their  inferiors.  They  call 
no  man  '  Master' ;  they  are  fishers  and  farmers, 
and  take  their  living  from  the  sea  and  the 
land.  Ruthie  is  as  proud  of  his  descent  as  an 
earl,  and  as  independent  as  if  the  sea  was  his 
own  landed  estate.  As  for  the  150  acres  he 
owns,  he  has  shown  me  his  title-deeds.  They 
were  given  by  the  Cistertian  monks  of  Rushen 
Abbey  in  1 106  to  Ingebrock  Clucas,  a  noted 
sea-rover  of  his  day.  Can  you,  or  any  one, 
show  a  lineage  more  ancient  and  honorable?  " 

Some  singular  answer  was  on  Mrs.  Penning- 
ton's  lips.  She  lifted  her  head  proudly,  but 
almost  instantly  restrained  whatever  impulse 
swayed  her.  Harriet  looked  at  her  with  an 
anxious  curiosity.  She  was  sure  her  mother 
was  going  to  say  something  very  wonderful 
and  unexpected,  but  the  momentary  emotion, 
whatever  it  arose  from,  died  away ;  and  the 
conversation  returned  to  Bella  Clucas. 

"  I  will  see  the  girl  myself,  Harriet,  if  I 
can  find  time,  and  any  liking  for  the  duty. 
But  it  will  do  no  good.  Love  is  not  in  our 
choice,  but  in  our  fate." 

"  Oh  no,  mother,  our  faults  and  our  virtues 
jnake  our  fate.  Besides,  do  you  think  George 


94  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

capable  of  a  real  affection  ?  I  do  not.  Mother, 
is  it  quite  determined  that  he  is  to  remain  at 
home?" 

"Look  at  those  bills,  Harriet,  and  tell  me  if 
he  is  fit  to  go  away  from  home  ?  " 

"  Do  you  hope  to  keep  him  economical  or 
make  him  prudent  by  overseeing  his  life  ?  He 
will  gamble  here,  he  will  spend  money  here, 
he  will  repeat  on  a  smaller  scale  his  past  life  ; 
repeat  it  in  a  circle  which  is  narrow  enough  to 
insure  decided  public  opinion  and  as  far  as 
regards  want  of  honesty  with  women  is  con 
cerned,  certain  retribution.  Do  not  bind  him 
to  Daniel  Teare  until  you  have  considered 
these  things." 

"  He  is  my  son,  he  is  your  brother  ;  whether 
he  bring  us  shame  or  honor  we  must  do  the 
best  we  can  for  him.  Sending  him  from  home 
to  misbehave  himself,  will  not  relieve  us  from 
responsibility." 

"  At  least,  if  his  allowance  is  continued,  he 
ought  to  resign  the  larger  part  of  it  towards 
his  debts." 

"  I  think  he  will  ;  but  I  do  not  know  that  it 
will  be  continued.  I  am  afraid  he  has  lost  a 
good  and  powerful  friend.  I  can  say  no  more 


SHADOWS  OF  COMING    EVENTS.  95 

now.  Harriet,  I  am  very,  anxious  and  miser 
able." 

"  Poor  mother." 

"And  your  affairs  too — " 

"We  will  not  even  speak  of  them,  while  you 
are  so  troubled  about  other  things." 

Mrs.  Pennington  seemed  much  relieved  by 
this  decision.  She  talked  until  the  dawning 
with  her  daughter,  and  then  sent  her  away  with 
a  grateful  kiss  and  an  advice  to  try  and  sleep 
a  few  hours.  But  Harriet  was  too  excited  to 
sleep.  For  the  first  time  it  struck  her,  that 
life  is  quite  as  serious  a  thing  as  death.  And 
the  voluntary  act  of  renunciation  she  had  just 
accomplished  had  left  her  at  an  unusual  ten 
sion. 

For  she  knew  that  there  are  no  small  events 
with  the  heart,  and  the  delay  of  her  marriage 
might  mean  the  entire  revolution  of  her  des 
tiny.  "  No  one  knows  what  changes  may  come, 
what  accidents  may  happen,"  then  she  sud 
denly  checked  herself,  and  said  with  a  certain 
bravery  of  voice  :  "  Nothing  under  the  sun  is 
accidental,  and  I  will  expect  good  from  the 
hand  of  God,  and  not  evil." 

She  opened  the  window  with  the  words  and 


9<>  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

looked  out  over  the  sea.  It  was  sapphire  blue, 
soft  airs  breathed  lightly  on  its  surface  and  the 
herring-boats  were  coming  swiftly  and  silently 
into  harbor.  She  stood  before  the  great  pict 
ure  as  before  a  sovereign,  waiting  to  see  if  it 
had  anything  to  say  to  her  ;  and  in  this  gentle 
mood  some  wind  of  heaven  brought  her  the 
words  of  help  she  needed  : 

"  Be  not  o'er  exquisite 
To  cast  the  fashion  of  uncertain  evils ; 
For  grant  they  be  so,  while  they  rest  unknown 
What  need  a  man  forestall  his  day  of  grief, 
And  run  to  meet  what  he  would  most  avoid  ?  " 

In  the  strength  of  this  message  Harriet  went 
cheerfully  many  days. 

For  delay  is  in  domestic  troubles  one  of 
the  most  trying  elements.  Neither  lawyers 
nor  tradesmen  would  hurry  for  the  impatient 
anxiety  of  women.  And  yet  the  delay  had  its 
advantages.  They  grew  familiar  with  their 
trouble,  and  began  to  look  at  it  from  its  most 
hopeful  aspect. 

Watching  for  letters  was  abandoned ;  they 
found  the  day  which  brought  them  sufficient 
for  their  consideration.  Of  course  this  relin- 
quishment  of  a  mutual  worry  involved  some 


SHADOWS  OF  COMING  EVENTS.  97 

self-denial,  but  also  it  brought  its  reward,  for 
both  gathered  into  their  hearts  in  these  inter 
vals  the  strength  which  comes  from  quiet  en 
durance  and  the  repose  which  is  the  gift  of 
silence. 

In  the  mean  time  George  Pennington  took 
his  life  with  an  almost  provoking  amiability. 
He  speedily  made  friends  among  the  officers 
of  the  garrison.  The  Kellys,  and  Christians, 
and  other  aristocratic  families  of  the  purest 
Manx  lineage,  began  to  inquire  about  the  ele 
gant  young  man  seen  so  often  with  Colonel 
Sutcliffe;  .and  one  morning  while  riding 
George  met  the  great  beauty,  Miss  Kate  Din- 
woodie,  and  was  so  fortunate  as  to  forestall  her 
groom  in  opening  a  gate  which  crossed  her  path. 

She  gave  him  a  bewildering  smile  and  a  few 
words  of  thanks,  and  Captain  George  raved 
about  her  black  eyes  and  musical  voice,  until 
Harriet  began  to  suspect  his  sincerity.  "  He 
wants  me  to  infer  that  he  has  forgot  Bella,  but 
I  do  not  believe  it,"  she  thought.  And  Har 
riet  was  right,  for  the  heart  is  a  diviner  and 
always  perceives  the  truth,  serving  us  with  a 
special  fidelity  in  this  way  when  we  are  judging 
others  and  not  ourselves. 


9«  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

George  had  by  no  means  forgotten  Bella. 
The  very  fact  that  he  found  it  so  difficult  to 
see  her,  kept  the  girl  constantly  in  his  thoughts. 
He  was  always  laying  plans  to  get  a  sight  of 
her  face,  a  touch  of  her  hand,  or,  best  of  all,  a 
few  words  with  her.  But  in  the  morning 
Ruthie  and  Gale  were  always  about  the  cot 
tage.  And  he  had  utterly  failed  in  winning 
their  confidence,  though  he  had  tried  hard  to 
do  so.  To  them  specially  he  paid  his  visits. 
He  wanted  to  hire  a  boat,  he  wanted  a  boat 
built,  he  begged  to  be  allowed  to  go  to  the 
herring-ground  with  them  once  more,  and  re 
minded  them  of  the  days  when  he  had  helped 
to  draw  the  nets.  He  exerted  himself  in  these 
requests  to  be  so  entertaining,  that  Ruthie  in 
spite  of  himself  often  gave  way  to  a  grim  smile. 
But  he  gained  nothing  from  the  men.  No 
favor  that  he  asked  was  "just  convaynient." 
Every  time  he  called  there  was  more  ceremony, 
and  less  conversation.  Generally  Bella  was 
sent  with  a  message  to  some  neighbor's  house, 
and  Mary  Clucas  was  so  painfully  civil  and  so 
painfully  nervous,  that  a  man  must  have  been 
absolutely  stupid  with  self-conceit  not  to  have 
understood  that  his  presence  was  offensive  to 


SHADOWS  OF  COMING  EVENTS.  99 

one  part  of  the  family,  and  extremely  trying 
to  the  other. 

Only  one  advantage  was  gained  by  these 
humiliating  visits,  but  it  was  an  advantage 
Captain  Pennington  calculated  upon.  The 
open  hostility  of  Ruthie  and  Gale,  and  their 
marked  want  of  courtesy,  aroused  the  sympathy 
of  the  women.  Every  time  he  went  to  the 
cottage  he  felt  that  if  he  lost  on  one  side,  he 
was  gaining  on  the  other.  Mary  was  annoyed 
at  every  inhospitable  act  and  word,  Bella  red 
dened  with  anger  at  the  slight  implied  by 
sending  her  out  of  his  presence. 

A  few  such  visits  prepared  the  way  for  a  call 
when  the  men  were  at  sea.  Mary  had  gone  to 
a  neighbor's  house  with  a  bowl  of  curds,  and 
Bella  was  sitting  alone  in  the  cottage  carding 
wool.  He  made  the  most  of  his  opportunity. 
He  wooed  the  girl  with  that  charming  eagerness 
so  persuasive  to  her  warm,  straightforward 
nature.  'He  said  in  the  plainest  words,  that 
"  he  loved  her  above  all  women " ;  he  said 
it  over  and  over,  and  each  time  with  such  de 
lightful  asseverations  that  Bella  could  not  but 
choose  to  believe  him. 

She  made    no  apology  for  her  father's  and 


ioo  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

brother's  rude  receptions ;  that  would  have 
been  an  act  dishonorable  and  disobedient  in 
her  eyes,  but  she  endeavored  to  atone  for  it 
by  the  kindness  of  her  own  manner.  And 
George  purposely  remained  with  her  until  the 
return  of  Mrs.  Clucas.  Then  he  complained  to 
her  of  the  unworthy  doubts  which  banished  him 
from  Bella  and  herself.  He  asked  if  he  had 
ever  done,  or  said  anything,  which  merited  the 
treatment  which  he  received  ;  and  Mary  was 
compelled  to  acknowledge,  that  he  "  had  allis 
been  a  puffic  gentleman." 

"  Then  why  have  Ruthie  and  Gale  turned 
against  me,  Mary  ?  " 

"Aw  then,  Miss  Harriet  was  spakin'  to 
Ruthie  and  to  me  ;  and  I'm  knowin'  that  you 
were  spakin'  to  Bella  on  the  sly  like — and  her 
father  was  sprung  a  bit  at  the  very  time,  and 
mad  at  the  all  of  you.  He's  havin'  a  danger's 
temper,  is  Ruthie  ;  and  Gale  the  marrow  of 
him,  but  sulkier  with  it." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Harriet  was  interfering  !  " 

"  She  was  saying  kind  words,  kind  and  sensi 
ble  for  all ;  but  Ruthie  is  proud  as  kings,  and 
thinkin'  nobody  better  than  Ruthie  Clucas, 


SHADOWS  OF  COMING  EVENTS.          IOI 

and  Bella  is  the  apple  of  his  right  eye,  and  his 
very  heart  beating  her  name." 

And  to  these  words  George  Pennington 
made  no  answer,  for  he  had  noticed  an  angry 
flush  on  Bella's  face  at  the  mention  of  Harriet's 
interference  :  and  when  she  lifted  her  eyes 
they  met  his  eyes  in  a  sympathetic  understand 
ing.  At  that  moment  Mary  rose  to  light  a 
candle,  and  George  Pennington  stooped  for 
ward  and  whispered,  "  I  will  be  at  the  lady's 
well  to-morrow  from  sunset  to  dark ;  do  not 
disappoint  me,  Bella." 

She  answered  not  a  word,  but  he  said 
Good-night  with  a  light  heart,  and  went  up 
the  glen  whistling  softly,  "  My  love  is  like  a 
red,  red  rose." 


CHAPTER    VI. 

FEET  OF  CLAY. 

"  Be  patient,  my  soul,  thou  hast  at  another  time  suf 
fered  something  still  worse  than  this." 

"  It  is  character  more  than  talent  that  ensures  esteem. 
No  one  can  be  really  great  who  has  a  low  moral  nature." 
— BLACKIE. 

THE  day  and  the  night  and  life  goes  on. 
But  the  day  and  the  night  are  only  the 
cups  which  hold  our  measure  of  life's  wine  or 
water.  To  each  the  measure  of  the  cup  is  the 
same,  but  the  mingling  thereof  has  an  eternal 
and  illimitable  variety.  Who  can  say  that  they 
have  had  two  days  precisely  alike  ?  And  yet 
Mrs.  Pennington  felt  as  if  the  slow  weeks  of 
August  were  made  up  of  a  dreary  sameness  of 
waiting  and  anxiety. 

Toward  the  end  of  it,  however,  George's  af 
fairs  were  so  far  settled  that  the  writing  of  a 
certain  letter  became  a  necessary  duty.  No 
one  knew  when  she  wrote  it,  but  all  could  see 
that  she  was  watching  the  mail  with  an  in- 


FEET  OF  CLAY.  103 

tensely  painful  expectation.  For  three  days 
she  had  suspense  and  disappointment.  Har 
riet  saw  that  her  distress  was  so  great  that  she 
could  not  swallow.  She  heard  her  soft  foot 
falls  overhead  in  a  monotonously  restless  walk. 
She  perceived  that  she  had  passed  the  hour  in 
which  society  is  endurable,  and  was  watching 
and  waiting  in  a  solitude  which  enabled  her  to 
give  her  soul  some  release  from  the  restraints 
imposed  upon  it,  even  by  the  company  of  her 
son  and  daughter. 

On  the  evening  of  the  third  day  she  was  for 
tunately  alone  in  the  house.  Harriet  had 
gone  to  an  entertainment  with  her  lover. 
George  was  wandering  in  Hellish  Glen  with 
Bella  Clucas.  In  the  midst  of  the  sorrowful 
thoughts  which  possessed  her  Mrs.  Pennington 
suspected  this,  but  it  was  only  as  one  respon 
sibility  is  remembered  among  a  great  many 
others. 

When  the  house  grew  dark  in  the  early 
gloaming,  she  went  into  the  garden.  It  was 
ablaze  with  dahlias  and  full  of  the  intoxi 
cating  perfume  of  August  lilies.  A  sleepy, 
old-world  air  pervaded  it ;  in  the  gray  twilight 
it  seemed  like  a  very  haunt  of  ancient  peace. 


104  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

But  the  solitary  side  of  our  nature  loves,  the 
sea,  and  Martha  Pennington  turned  her  face 
towards  it.  Its  everlasting  murmur  answered 
the  restless  beating  of  her  own  heart.  The 
silence  and  seclusion,  the  pale  radiance  of  the 
new  moon,  the  ebb  of  the  tide  serenely  drawn 
away,  insensibly  calmed  and  comforted  her.  A 
deep,  peaceful  sadness  hushed  the  tumult  of 
the  past  anxious  days ;  she  spoke  to  God  softly 
and  pleadingly  as  a  child  may  speak  to  a  father, 
and  He  answered  her. 

It  was  in  this  peaceful  mood  she  heard  a 
firm,  deliberate  step  approaching;  not  the  step 
of  any  of  her  household,  and  yet  its  echo  vi 
brated  dully  on  some  chord  of  memory.  She 
turned  slowly  and  with  a  certain  fear  to  meet 
it.  A  man  was  coming  toward  her,  a  tall, 
rather  stout  man  in  the  prime  of  life.  She 
whispered  his  name,  though  she  had  not  seen 
him  for  twenty  years.  In  another  moment  he 
was  holding  her  hand,  and  gazing  with  won 
dering  pity  into  her  face. 

"  My  dear  Martha  !  " 

"  My  dear  Robert !  I  am  in  trouble,  Rob 
ert,  and  there  is  no  one  but  you.  I  wrote  a 
letter—" 


FEET  OF  CLAY.  IO$ 

"  I  am  here  in  answer  to  it.  Where  are  the 
children?" 

"  They  are  visiting,  a  little  dance  at  the 
Deemster's,  that  is  all.  Come  into  the  house. 
You  must  want  some  refreshment." 

"  No.  I  had  my  dinner  at  the  hotel.  My 
valet  and  baggage  are  there.  Until  I  know 
all  about  this  nephew  of  mine,  it  is  best  to  pre 
serve  my  incognito.  I  am  your  lawyer,  your 
adviser,  tell  him  nothing  more.  I  must  be  left 
quite  free  in  this  matter,  Martha." 

"  Certainly.     Have  you  any  news  for  me  ?  " 

"  Not  a  word." 

"  You  are  making  every  effort  ?  " 

"  Every  possible  effort." 

Then  there  was  a  painful  silence  until  the 
house  was  reached.  A  very  ghost  of  a  smile 
flitted  over  her  face  at  the  door.  She  bade  him 
welcome,  and  then  led  him  to  a  small  parlor. 
In  response  to  her  bell  Quayle  came  trailing 
in  with  candles,  and  pottered  awhile  over  the 
window-blinds  and  the  fireplace.  There  was  a 
wood  fire  dying  on  the  hearth,  and  he  btought 
in  more  wood  and  swept  the  marble  stone  free 
of  ashes. 

In  the  mean  time  Mrs.  Pennington  went  up 


106  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

stairs.  She  returned  with  her  hands  full  of 
papers,  and,  when  Quayle  had  left  the  parlor, 
pushed  them  silently  across  the  table  to  her 
companion.  They  were  the  bills  which  Har 
riet  had  once  examined  with  so  much  indigna 
tion,  the  record  of  George's  folly  and  extrava 
gance.  Mrs.  Pennington  watched  the  face  of 
the  man  who  was  looking  them  over,  with  a 
sickening  anxiety.  It  was  a  noble  face,  with 
that  strange,  elusive  likeness  to  George,  which 
we  call  family  resemblance.  And  yet  to  those 
unfamiliar  with  the  family  there  would  not 
have  been  the  slightest  suggestion  of  kinship. 
George  was  strikingly  handsome,  his  uncle  had 
no  claim  whatever  to  beauty.  George  was 
slight  and  elegant  in  form,  his  uncle  tall  and 
massive.  Both  were  noticeably  particular 
about  their  dress,  but  George  affected  the 
utmost  splendor  and  fashion,  his  uncle's  cloth 
ing  was  distinguished  by  a  studied  simplicity. 

He  was  evidently  a  man  of  the  world,  and 
accustomed  to  look  at  things  from  a  very  dif 
ferent  standpoint  from  his  sister-in-law.  The 
bills  which  had  kept  Martha  Pennington  and 
her  daughter  Harriet  sleepless  and  miserable, 
which  had  shadowed  their  lives  for  many 


FEET  OF  CLAY.  107 

weeks,  he  regarded,  not  indeed  with  indiffer 
ence,  but  without  anger  and  without  any 
intimation  that  he  thought  them  a  final  evi 
dence  of  George's  utter  failure  in  life.  He 
glanced  at  the  contents  of  each,  and  jotted 
down  their  amounts  as  he  proceeded  with  his 
task.  Sometimes  a  contemptuous  smile  drew 
his  kindly  mouth  a  trifle  downward,  but  in  the 
main  the  expression  was  that  of  grave  annoy 
ance,  such  an  expression,  indeed,  as  a  physi 
cian  might  wear  who  was  diagnosing  the  case 
of  a  man  who  had  wilfully  brought  on  himself 
a  dangerous  attack  of  sickness. 

Once  or  twice  he  glanced  at  the  anxious 
mother.  His  heart  gave  him  a  sharp  pain 
when  he  did  so.  The  dark  shadow  under  her 
drooped  eyes,  the  pallor  of  her  wasted  face 
were  the  evidences  to  him  of  a  terror  and  sor 
row  which  the  world  suspected  not,  but  which 
he  knew,  a  sorrow  which  came  streaming  up 
from  years  long  since  dead,  but  which  had  still 
power  to  darken  the  sunshine  of  the  present. 

When  he  had  gone  through  the  papers  to  the 
last  scrap  he  laid  them  tidily  together,  and  then 
turned  his  chair  away  from  the  table. 

"  Martha,"  he  said,  "  they  make  a  bad  list,  but 


lo8  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

not  a  hopeless  one.  He  has  been  led  into  the 
greater  part  of  his  extravagance  by  the  mere 
force  of  companionship  and  imitation.  He 
has  been  in  temptation,  and  been  too  weak 
to  withstand  it;  more's  the  pity!  But  I 
think  it  was  wrong  to  let  him  sell  his  commis 
sion." 

"  Oh  no !  Oh  no  !  I  am  sure  it  was  better 
for  him  to  come  home.  When  a  man  is  too 
weak  to  withstand  temptation  he  must  not  be 
sent  into  it.  '  Lead  us  not  into  temptation  ' — 
that  is  the  prayer  that  George,  like  so  many 
of  us,  needs  most  of  all." 

"  But  he  cannot  remain  always  at  home. 
And  there  is  temptation  of  some  kind  or  other 
in  all  places  and  conditions.  Cards  and  dice 
are  everywhere.  Wine  and  women  are  every 
where.  Even  convents  and  monasteries  have 
their  peculiar  vices,  and  a  man  could  be  a  vil 
lain  if  he  lived  entirely  alone.  Do  you  hope, 
Martha,  that  if  he  fails  to  learn  the  lesson  of 
life  here,  he  will  learn  it  in  another  life  ?  No, 
no,  he  must  conquer  his  faults  now." 

"  Robert,  I  know  my  son.  I  dare  not  trust 
him  in  the  world  again.  He  must  remain  here, 
and  he  can  occupy  his  time  in  the  study  of  the 


FEET  OF  CLAY.  109 

law.  Our  best  and  greatest  men  here  are 
lawyers.  Any  position  is  open  to  them." 

"  Martha,  have  you  the  power  of  forecasting 
George's  destiny  ?  You  see  that  I  have  never 
married.  I  am  never  likely  to  do  so.  From 
the  saddle  of  a  cavalry  officer  a  man  may  take 
any  position  without  embarrassment." 

"  A  lawyer  too,  Robert—  " 

"  For  God's  sake,  Martha,  let  us  keep  from 
the  law.  The  sight  of  a  lawyer  makes  me 
tremble ;  and  if  George  is  really  so  weak  as 
you  seem  to  think,  I  would  not  trust  him  with 
its  facilities.  Morally  weak  men  have  no  more 
business  with  the  law  than  a  moth  has  with  a 
flame." 

A  silence  sensitive  with  the  uncle's  irritation 
and  the  mother's  opposition  followed.  Rob 
ert  Pennington  broke  it  with  an  impetuous 
question  caused  by  a  suspicion  as  certain  as  it 
was  sudden  : 

"  Martha,  are  you  quite  sure  that  you  have 
told  me  all?  All,  mind.  I  must  know  every 
thing.  Less  than  everything  would  be  a 
wrong  to  me,  and  a  dishonor  to  yourself." 

She  was  white  as  death  ;  she  trembled  from 
head  to  foot,  and  laced  and  unlaced  her  ner- 


no  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

vous  hands  with  a  piteous  despair.  She  tried 
to  speak,  but  could  not. 

"There  is  more  then?" 

A  movement  of  her  head,  a  dumb  entreaty 
from  eyes  full  of  fear,  answered  him. 

"There  is  more  I  see,  and  worse?"  He 
rose  with  the  question  and  went  to  the  side 
board.  A  caraffe  of  water  stood  upon  it,  and 
he  filled  a  glass  and  brought  it  to  her.  Then 
he  also  drank  with  an  almost  greedy  haste, 
and  after  standing  motionless  a  few  minutes 
returned  to  his  chair. 

"  Martha,  dear,  it  is  best  to  have  all  con 
fessed  and  understood.  Try  and  tell  me." 

"  There  was  a  debt  to  Lord  Penrith.  I  have 
paid  it." 

"To  Arthur  Penrith?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  but  that  is  shameful!      Intolerable!" 

"  You  must  remember  that  George  knows 
nothing." 

"  True.  But  oh,  what  cruel  fate  brought 
those  two  together?" 

"I  never  asked,  a  social  accident,  I  suppose. 
Arthur  Penrith  had  a  strong  affection  for 
George," 


FEET  OF  CLAY.  Ill 

"Impossible!  How  could  it  be?  Why  did 
you  not  put  a  stop  to  the  acquaintance?" 

"  I  did  not  know  of  it.  How  should  I  ? 
George  had  many  friends  and  acquaintances. 
I  knew  none  of  their  names.  Penrith  was  one 
among  them.  He  had  been  very  kind,  won 
derfully  kind  to  George,  so  devoted  to  him 
that — George — being  —  in — a — great  — strait — 
one  day— 

"Goon!" 

"I  cannot." 

"Go  on,  Martha." 

"George — not — knowing — what — to — do — 
for — £800 — " 

"  Go  on.  For  God's  sake,  don't  keep  me  in 
such  suspense." 

She  covered  her  face. with  her  hands  and 
remained  silent. 

"You  mean  that  George — FORGED — Lord 
Penrith's  name?" 

"  Yes.     Oh,  be  merciful,  Robert !  " 

He  sat  staring  before  him  with  a  gloomy 
anger,  an  anger  that  was  almost  despair.  The 
room  was  so  still  that  the  dropping  of  wood- 
ash  upon  the  marble  hearth  made  a  distinct 
vibration.  And  when  Robert  Pennington 


112  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

spoke  again,  it  was  in  the  voice  of  one  to 
whom  speech  was  a  fatigue.  Yet  the  slow 
words  were  full  of  pity,  and  so  soft  and  gentle 
that  they  required  Martha  Pennington  to 
make  a  mental  effort  in  order  to  catch  their 
meaning  and  apply  it. 

"  Why  did  you  not  send  for  me  as  soon  as 
this  crime  was  known  to  you?" 

"  Because,  because  I  did  not  want  you  to 
know.  Penrith  behaved  like  a  brother. 
George  confessed  the  wrong  to  him,  and  he 
paid  the  note  without  a  word.  He  wept  like 
a  child,  he  had  so  loved  and  trusted  George." 

"George  Pennington  is  a  scoundrel." 

"  Be  merciful,  Robert.  George  wept,  too. 
I  am  sure  he  was  bitterly  sorry.  Penrith  for 
gave  him,  but  has  never  spoken  to  him  since." 

"  What  a  horror  of  shame  !  Is  Penrith  paid 
yet?" 

"Yes,  yes.  As  soon  as  George  told  me,  I 
got  the  money.  I  got  it  on  my  pearls." 

"You  threw  them  away,  I  dare  say." 

"  Let  them  go ;  sorrowful  gems  they  have 
been  to  me." 

"Why  was  I    not  sent  for  then?" 

"  I  thought  I  could  save  you  this  shame.     I 


FEET  OF  CLAY.  113 

thought  then  that  a  thousand  pounds  would 
put  George  right.  I  felt  that  he  must  sell  out 
and  get  away  from  temptation,  and  then  after 
all  I  found  myself  unable  to  manage  his 
debts.  '  They  kept  coming  in,'  he  said.  I  sup 
pose  he  did  not  really  know  how  much  he 
owed.  Oh,  Robert,  Robert,  be  merciful  to  him  ! 
We  cannot  tell  how  much  is  really  his  fault." 

"  You  must  go  to  bed,  now,  Martha ;  you  are 
more  dead  than  alive.  Poor  mother!  Bear 
it  as  well  as  you  are  able.  I  am  here,  dear,  to 
lift  all  of  the  burden  I  can  from  your  heart." 

"  Oh,  Robert !  I  wish  I  had  sent  for  you 
before  !  I  wish  I  had  trusted  you  before  !  I 
have  suffered ;  oh,  how  much  I  have  suf 
fered  ! " 

"  And  George  is  dancing  and  making  love, 
I  suppose  !  What  imperishable  faith  and  love 
there  must  be  in  women's  hearts  ?  How  else 
would  they  dare  to  become  mothers  ?  " 

"  Ah,  Robert,  there  are  so  many  good  chil 
dren,  so  many  sweet  and  loving  children  ;  and 
as  for  those  who  tear  our  hearts  to  pieces,  God 
so  loved  them,  dear,  that  he  sent  his  only 
begotten  Son  to  be  their  salvation ;  shall  a 
mortal  mother  be  less  merciful  ?  " 


114  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

• 
"  God  bless  you,  Martha  !     I  am  going  now, 

dear.  I  must  have  time  to  think  before  I  see 
George  Pennington.  Remember  I  am  Robert 
Luce  to  him.  I  am  not  sure  whether  I  shall 
ever  know  him  under  any  other  name." 

But  before  the  week  was  over  Robert  Pen 
nington  had  begun  to  think  it  very  likely  that 
he  might  reveal  his  relationship  to  his  nephew. 
He  had  begun  to  really  like  him.  In  fact 
George  suspected,  from  the  first  moment  of 
their  meeting,  that  the  presumed  man  of  bus 
iness  was  the  identical  person  who  had  carried 
him  in  his  arms  during  that  midnight  journey 
from  the  splendid  home  of  his  earliest  memory. 
And  although  the  strictest  formality  was 
observed  in  public  between  Mrs.  Pennington 
and  her  brother-in-law,  George's  senses,  being 
on  the  alert,  discovered  an  ease  of  manner,  an 
understood  equality,  which  satisfied  him  that 
the  reputed  Mr.  Robert  Luce  was  connected 
to  them  by  nearer  ties  than  those  of  business. 

He  carefully  concealed  this  suspicion.  He 
took  his  uncle  precisely  at  what  his  uncle 
asserted  himself  to  be  ;  but  at  the  same  time 
he  paid  him  the  most  respectful  and  undemon 
strative  attentions.  The  elder  man  was  natur- 


FEET  OF  CLAY.  US 

ally  kind  and  unsuspicious,  he  was  predis 
posed  to  like  one  for  whom  he  had  done  so 
much,  and  whose  very  personality  was  linked 
to  his  own  by  memories  full  of  affection  and 
sorrow. 

For  a  day  or  two  he  watched  George  curi 
ously  ;  then  he  fell,  as  people  generally  did  fall, 
under  the  charm  of  his  beauty  and  gracious 
manners.  And  for  him  George  thought  it 
worth  while  to  exert  his  fine  mental  abilities. 
He  drew  from  every  source  and  from  every 
literature  apt  illustrations,  witty  aphorisms, 
bits  of  quaint  and  curious  knowledge.  He  as 
tonished  his  mother  and  sister  even  more  than 
his  uncle,  by  the  fresh  and  original  views 
which  he  took  of  the  daily  topics  of  their 
conversation. 

Harriet  began  to  think  that  there  was,  after 
all,  some  justice  in  the  claim  George  made  for 
their  submission  to  his  masculine  intellect  and 
will.  She  supposed  men  talked  to  each  other 
in  this  way,  considering  it  to  be  beyond  the 
capacity  and  cultivation  of  women.  She  was 
in  a  state  of  rebellion  on  this  subject  before 
her  uncle's  visit  was  over,  continually  ask 
ing  herself  the  questions  about  the  higher 


Il6  FEE T  OF  CLAY. 

education  of  women,  which  women  had  asked 
uselessly  for  many  a  century,  until  the  present 
civilization  brought  them  the  long-delayed 
justice,  the  larger  opportunities,  the  grander 
hopes,  the  loftier  duties  which  were  theirs  of 
right. 

In  reality  Harriet  did  not  impress  her  uncle 
as  favorably  as  her  brother  did.  No  suspicion 
as  to  his  relationship  influenced  her  manners. 
She  gave  him  the  gentle  courtesy  which  she 
thought  his  position  as  her  mother's  adviser 
demanded,  beyond  that  she  was  not  inter 
ested  in  Mr.  Luce.  Colonel  Sutcliffe  monop 
olized  all  her  time  and  attentions.  Her  pretty 
dresses,  her  songs,  and  smiles,  and  concilia 
tions  were  all  for  him.  "A  nice  girl,"  her 
uncle  thought ;  "  but  without  a  particle  of  her 
mother's  strength  of  character,  or  of  her  broth 
er's  intellect." 

Robert  Pennington  forgot,  or  perhaps  was 
ignorant  of  the  fact,  that  a  woman  is  never  so 
generally  uninteresting,  so  almost  repulsive  to 
all  the  world  but  her  lover,  as  when  her  per 
sonality  is  absorbed  in  the  supreme  egotism  of 
her  affection  for  that  one  individual.  To  her 
uncle  Harriet  Pennington  seemed  to  have  a 


FEET  OF  CLAY.  1 17 

weak  will,  small  intellect,  and  very  little  indi 
viduality  of  character,  simply  because  she  had 
merged  her  will,  her  intellect,  and  her  charac 
ter  for  the  time  being,  into  the  paramount  de 
sire  of  pleasing  Colonel  Sutcliffe.  For  her 
womanly  instinct  had  taught  her  that  between 
lovers  the  sweetest  concord  is  obtained  by  the 
subjection  of  the  feminine  character  to  the 
masculine,  and  that  such  a  condition  is  the 
only  happy  atmosphere  for  courtship.  Matri 
mony  indeed  is  a  different  climate,  and  has  an 
illimitable  condition  of  circumstances,  many 
of  which  necessitate  the  reversion  of  this  or 
der,  but  they  are  generally  circumstances 
bringing  with  them  sorrows  and  cares  that 
happy  wives  ought  never  to  know. 

So  Harriet  was  supremely  blessed  in  the 
sweet  subjection  of  these  pleasant  autumn 
days.  Her  mother  seemed  to  grow  constantly 
more  cheerful.  It  was  evident  both  from  her 
manner  and  George's  light-heartedness  that 
the  debts  which  had  appeared  so  overwhelm 
ing  were  being  managed  better  than  two  simple 
women  had  dared  to  anticipate.  She  threw 
off  the  care  of  them,  and  enjoyed  with  all  her 
heart  days  so  full  of  love,  so  free  from  care. 


Il8  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

Such  exquisite  days!  It  seemed  to  her  as  if 
they  had  been  created  specially  for  this  de 
light,  days  filled  with  sunshine  and  enthrall 
ing  scents  of  the  rich  autumn.  Such  exquis 
ite  nights,  set  in  the  soft  radiance  of  the  har 
vest  moon  ! 

"  This  is  the  Island  of  Avalon— The  Isle  of 
the  Blest,  not  far  from  the  terrestrial  side  of 
Paradise!"  When  Robert  Pennington  made 
this  remark  he  was  standing  with  his  nephew 
on  the  high  cliff's  of  Scarlett,  looking  at  the 
calm  sea  and  the  calm  earth.  A  peace  beyond 
expression  was  over  both.  A  mortal  must 
have  been  without  a  soul  not  to  have  felt  it. 

"Yes,"  answered  George  thoughtfully. 
"  One  feels  the  insane  folly  of  gas-lit  gambling 
hells  and  crowded,  roaring  race-courses,  and 
even  of  brilliant  ball-rooms,  here." 

"  Permit,  not  me,  but  my  years  and  my  ex 
perience,  to  say  a  few  words  to  you,  Captain. 
I  am  going  away  in  the  morning." 

"  Sir,  my  own  conscience  has  said  far  more 
to  me  than  your  kind  heart  would  venture 
upon.  I  am  quite  aware  of  my  faults.  I  re 
gret  them  exceedingly,  especially  for  my  moth 
er's  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  a  friend  who, 


FEET  OF  CLAY.  Up 

though  unknown  to  me,  has  been  generous 
and  forbearing.  If  you  know  who  he  is,  sir, 
convey  to  him  my  sorrow  and  my  gratitude." 

The  young  man  standing  in  that  enchanting 
light,  with  the  ocean  before  him  and  the  calm, 
exquisite  heavens  above  him,  looked  so  hand 
some,  so  regretful,  so  lovable,  that  Robert  Pen- 
nington  could  not  resist  the  affectionate  im 
pulse  of  his  nature. 

"George,"  he  said  softly,  "I  am  your  un 
known  friend.  I  am  your  uncle,  Robert  Luce 
Pennington.  I  had  the  right  to  do  all  that 
has  been  done.  I  felt  the  right  to  be  a  pleas 
ure.  My  dear  nephew,  in  the  future  we  will 
try  and  avoid  all  mistakes."  He  faced  the 
young  man  with  eyes  mistily  tender,  and  put 
out  both  hands.  George  clasped  them  with 
an  equal  emotion.  Then  he  offered  his  uncle 
his  arm,  and  they  turned  homeward  together. 

Soon  the  younger  man  began  to  talk  more 
freely,  to  express  his  sorrow,  and  to  inquire 
about  his  future. 

"All  your  debts  are  paid,  George;  the 
future  unhampered  by  the  past  is  before  you. 
I  am  against  your  leaving  the  army.  I  dislike 
the  law.  I  would  rather  see  you  wear  a  cap- 


120  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

tain's  uniform  all  your  life,  than  the  Lord 
High  Chancellor's  robes." 

"  Indeed,  sir,  I  am  of  your  opinion." 

"  Very  well,  then,  what  two  are  agreed  upon 
takes  effect.  What  if  I  could  get  you  a  com 
mission  in  a  regiment  going  to  India  ?  There 
is  always  lively  work  in  the  Hill  Stations." 

"  Uncle,  that  is  precisely  what  I  would  like. 
I  hate  to  trail  a  sword  over  pavements  and 
carpets,  but  to  flash  it  against  an  enemy 
worthy  of  its  edge  is  a  different  thing." 

"  Good  !  Suppose  you  join  Sir  John  Gough. 
Those  mountaineers  he  is  fighting  are  well- 
matched  even  with  Englishmen." 

George  was  all  enthusiasm.  He  delighted 
his  uncle,  and  they  parted  with  an  affection 
very  sincere  on  the  elder  man's  side,  and  not 
altogether  simulated  on  the  younger's.  Indeed 
he  felt  grateful  for  the  fresh  direction  given  to 
his  life.  India  suggested  so  many  agreeable 
things;  beautiful  begums  clothed  in  jewelled 
silks,  marvellous  old  cities,  gold,  silver,  spices 
and  ivory,  tiger  hunts,  harems  and  houris,  a 
hundred  delights,  all  so  possible  in  the  imagina 
tion,  all  so  impossible  in  the  reality. 

And  very  soon  another  thought  blended  with 


FEET  OF  CLAY.  121 

these  strange  Oriental  desires,  the  thought 
of  the  Manx  fisherman's  fair  daughter.  Where 
was  her  place  to  be  among  these  Indian  pleas 
ures  ?  For  he  would  not  give  up  Bella.  Im 
possible  !  So  he  went  to  sleep  picturing  the 
bungalow  surrounded  by  spice  and  tamarind 
trees  in  which  he  would  hide  away  his  northern 
Peri.  She  was  to  dwell  among  the  treasures  of 
ivory,  and  sandalwood,  and  cloth  of  gold,  and 
silver.  She  was  to  be  dressed  in  Dacca  muslins 
and  gleaming  tissues,  and  the  thin  lustrous  silks 
of  China,  and  to  quite  forget  under  Asian  suns 
and  moons  the  little  stone  cottage  in  Glen 
Hellish  and  the  showery,  sunny,  flowery  isle  of 
her  birth.  And  below  all  the  sensuous  glory 
of  these  musings,  one  strong,  self-complacent 
reflection  added  a  keener  zest  to  his  anticipa 
tions — it  was  this :  I  suspected  all  the  time 
who  he  was,  and  I  played  my  cards  pretty  well. 
I  have  seen  his  whole  hand,  I  think ! 

After  his  nephew  had  left  him,  Robert  Pen- 
nington  was  not  so  full  of  satisfaction.  He 
had  that  feeling  which  at  times  has  made  us 
all  uncomfortable,  the  feeling  that  we  have 
allowed  our  emotions  to  get  the  better  of  our 
reason.  For  when  the  magnetism  of  George's 


122  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

personal  presence  was  removed,  uncertainty 
and  doubt  rushed  in  like  a  cold  wind.  He 
went  to  his  sister  hoping  to  be  reassured  by  her 
confiding  love,  and  with  some  shame  confessed 
that  he  had,  in  a  moment  of  sympathy  and  trust 
induced  by  George's  confession  of  his  faults, 
revealed  not  only  his  personal  identity  to 
him,  but  also  his  intentions  regarding  his 
future. 

The  mother  cheered  him  with  her  approval. 
She  thought  he  had  done  right.  A  sentiment 
of  affection  would  ennoble  the  sentiment  of 
obligation.  George  had  a  noble  disposition,  he 
would  not  abuse  his  confidence.  "You  have 
been  with  him  constantly  for  a  week,  Robert," 
she  said ;  "  have  you  not  been  struck  with  his 
many  personal  and  mental  excellences  ?  Are 
you  really  not  a  little  proud  of  your  nephew?  " 

"  I  confess  that  it  is  very  easy  to  love  George, 
he  has  so  many  evident  good  points  ;  but  oh, 
my  dear  Martha,  it  would  be  a  sin  in  both  of  us 
to  forget  the  moral  weakness  which  in  a  man 
ner  debases  all  his  other  excellences." 

"  I  know  what  you  allude  to.  The  wretched 
bit  of  paper  is  ever  before  me ;  but  he  is  so 
sorry,  dear." 


FEET  OF  CLAY.  123 

"  But  he  is  weak,  essentially  weak,  because 
he  is  essentially  selfish." 

"Oh,  Robert!" 

"  He  is  extraordinarily  selfish.  His  selfish 
ness  impairs  all  his  moral  perceptions.  What 
he  wants  he  is  determined  to  have ;  rightly  if 
he  can  get  it  rightly,  if  he  cannot  get  it 
rightly,  he  is  still  determined  to  have  it.  Do 
you  understand?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  He  reminds  me  of  the  image  the  Baby 
lonish  king  saw.  It  was  of  gold,  and  silver, 
and  brass,  and  iron,  and  its  brightness  was 
excellent — but  its  feet  were  of  clay — its  feet 
were  of  clay,  Martha ;  and  neither  the  gold 
nor  the  iron  could  save  it.  George  has  beauty, 
intellect,  delightful  manners,  and  a  nature  re 
sponsive  to  affection,  but  he  will  gratify  himself 
though  he  should  break  every  obligation  to  do 
it,  and  remember  this — Indulgence  is  the  twin- 
sister  of  Guilt." 

tf  If  George  has  one  great  fault,  he  has  many 
good  qualities." 

"  His  brightness,  like  that  of  the  image, 
is  excellent ;  but  oh,  Martha  !  feet  of  clay,  I 
fear,  feet  of  clay." 


124  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

"  But  there  is  surely  help  for  this  weakness, 
Robert?" 

"  The  patience  of  earthly  love,  the  strength 
of  heavenly  love,  nothing  else,  Martha,  and 
nothing  less." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

AN  UNWELCOME  VISITOR. 

"  When  on  a  windless  sea  life's  vessel  swims, 
Becalmed,  afraid,  our  God,  to  Thee  we  cry." 

"  To  quell  the  waves  such  task  Thou  didst  not  set  her ; 
To  toil  on  them  and  trust,  for  her  is  better ; 
And  in  her  perils  Thou  wilt  not  forget  her." 
k 

"  She  weeps,  and  bitter  are  her  tears, 
And  urgent  as  the  sudden  fears 
Which  even  love  refused  to  face." 

SOME  people  pay  visits  and  leave  behind 
them  a  spirit  of  unrest  which  it  takes 
weeks  to  exorcise.  They  were  strung  too  high 
or  too  low  for  the  domestic  atmosphere  in 
which  they  temporarily  found  themselves ;  for 
we  can  but  guess  at  one  another  darkly,  and 
are  like  players, 

"  knowing  not  the  powers 
Nor  compass  of  the  instruments  we  vex  ; 
And  by  our  rash  unskilful  hands  perplex 
To  straining  discords  :  " 

But   Robert  Pennington  cheered   and  bright 
ened  the  household  into  which  he  came.     He 
125 


126  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

had  found  it  under  a  cloud,  he  left  it  in  the 
sunshine.  There  was  not  a  servant  in  it  who 
did  not  divine  that  some  danger  had  been 
turned  away  or  some  care  lifted. 

The  Captain's  light-heartedness  had  been  in 
a  great  measure  affected  before  ;  no  one  could 
now  mistake  the  reality  of  his  reckless  joyous- 
ness.  Harriet  had  an  intoxicating  sense  of 
freedom,  her  steps  were  like  dancing,  her 
voice  sweet  as  singing,  her  mood  gay  and 
bright  as  a  spring  morning.  She  was  a  fresh 
revelation  to  her  lover,  and  their  wooing 
seemed  to  have  caught  a  livelier  rapture  and 
a  fairer  hope. 

No  one  noticed  that  Mrs.  Pennington  was 
still  on  the  watch,  that  her  eyes  were  anxious, 
that  she  had  the  air  of  one  that  is  listening, 
that  her  letters  were  scanned  with  increasing 
eagerness  every  morning.  For  both  Harriet 
and  George  were  fathoms  deep  in  their  own 
love  affairs,  and  full  of  hopes  and  plans  so 
entirely  personal  that  there  was  little  conver 
sation  between  them.  Indeed,  Harriet  could 
not  talk  with  George  about  Bella.  She  was 
deeply  offended  with  the  girl,  and  Bella  was 
just  as  deeply  offended  with  her.  And  George 


AN   UNWELCOME    VISITOR.  127 

was  not  anxious  that  the  rupture  should  be 
healed.  He  did  not  want  his  sister  to  have 
Bella's  confidence,  he  did  not  want  Bella  to 
come  under  his  sister's  influence.  And  where 
there  is  a  disposition  to  drift  apart  very  little 
aids  it,  the  shake  of  the  head,  the  lifted 
shoulder,  the  implication  that  is  scarcely  made 
audible,  is  more  than  sufficient. 

So  the  last  days  of  autumn  went  gayly  away. 
Each  heart  was  singing  its  own  song,  and 
everything  around  echoed  its  spirit  and  mel 
ody.  The  sea  was  wonderfully  still,  and  the 
young  people  were  much  upon  it.  One  morn 
ing  they  left  early  and  took  provisions  for  the 
day  with  them,  and  did  not  return  until  they 
could  drift  slowly  in  with  the  evening  tide 
after  sunset. 

They  were  weary  with  pleasure,  and  came 
across  the  gaery  and  through  the  garden. 
George  had  left  them  on  the  beach.  "  He  is 
going  to  meet  that  girl,"  Harriet  said  a  little 
bitterly  to  her  lover;  and  Colonel  Sutcliffe, 
having  seen  "that  girl,"  did  not  express  him 
self  with  any  great  acrimony.  Perhaps  he 
could  understand  her  charm  better  than  Har 
riet  could.  But  his  lack  of  interest  in  her 


128  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

annoyance  caused  a  slight  shadow  between 
them,  conversation  flagged,  or  rather  it  was 
turned  by  Sutcliffe  upon  the  beauty  of  the 
night,  a  subject  which  did  not  at  that  hour 
interest  Harriet  half  so  much  as  George's  im 
prudence  and  Bella's  perverseness. 

"  Have  you  noticed,  love,"  he  said,  "  that  if 
ever  you  want  the  interpretation  of  any  of 
nature's  moods,  you  will  get  it  in  Words 
worth  ?  " 

"  No,  I  have  not  noticed.  For  instance," 
she  asked,  with  a  very  faint  assumption  of 
^nterest. 

"  Look  around,  and  listen,  and  then  acknowl 
edge  how  this  verse  fits  the  present  hour : 

'  The  sun  has  long  been  set, 

The  stars  are  out  by  two  and  threes, 

The  little  birds  are  piping  yet 
Among  the  bushes  and  the  trees. 

There's  a  cuckoo  and  one  or  two  thrushes, 

And  a  far-off  wind  that  rushes, 

And  a  sound  of  water  that  gushes, 

And  the  cuckoo's  sovereign  cry 

Fills  all  the  hollow  of  the  sky.'  " 

"  I  think  little  of  the  cuckoo's  sovereign  ciy. 
You  should  hear  George  put  him  in  his  proper 


AN  UNWELCOME    VISITOR.  129 

place.  He  is  a  detestable  bird,  without  ordi 
nary  affections,  and  too  lazy  to  rear  his  own 
young.  Wordsworth  indeed !  Milton  knew 
him  better,  and  ranks  him  with  birds  unclean. 
George  repeated  the  lines  to  me.  I  have  for 
gotten  them  all,  but  I  know  that  Milton  repre 
sents  himself  as  preaching  liberty  to  the  people, 

'  When  straight  a  barbarous  noise  environed  him, 
Of  owls,  and  cuckoos,  asses,  apes,  and  dogs.' 

George  said  also  that  both  in  Leviticus  and 
Deuteronomy  the  Jew  is  forbidden  to  eat  him. 
I  dare  say  that  he  can  give  you  chapter  and 
verse." 

"  I  will  take  your  word  for  the  bird's  bad 
character,  Harriet.  But  you  have  spoiled  the 
cuckoo's  note  for  me  forever.  Is  not  that  a 
pity?" 

There  was  a  tone  of  regret  in  his  voice,  and 
Harriet  was  sorry  to  have  caused  it.  Silence 
fell  between  them,  and  they  came  up  the  gar 
den  way  with  the  air  of  tired  children,  and 
were  met  at  the  door  by  Mrs.  Pennington. 

She  looked  like  a  woman  who  had  been 
keeping  a  miserable  vigil.  Her  eyes  were  red 
with  weeping,  her  smiles  had  no  reality  of 


13°  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

heart-sunshine  in  them,  her  pleasant  words 
lacked  all  spontaneous  warmth.  Harriet  felt 
hurt  at  this  attitude.  It  seemed  almost  a  per 
sonal  injustice  to  her.  She  believed  that  all 
cause  for  worry  was  over,  and  she  did  feel  as 
if  it  was  unkind  to  darken,  either  by  retrospec 
tive  or  anticipated  anxieties,  these  last  happy 
days  of  her  girlhood. 

"  I  shall  be  married  soon  and  have  doubtless 
my  full  share  of  woman's  sorrows.  I  think 
mother  should  try  to  be  cheerful,  for  she  knows 
that  such  a  look  as  is  in  her  eyes  to-night 
takes  all  the  pleasure  out  of  my  anticipa 
tions." 

This  was  the  thought  in  her  heart  as  she 
parted  with  her  lover.  She  imagined  he  had 
been  a  little  too  ready  to  go,  for  women  are 
terribly  exacting  and  cannot  understand  that 
a  day  may  be  too  full,  even  of  love  and  hap 
piness.  "  No  wonder  he  wanted  to  get  away," 
she  continued  fretfully  ;  "  there  is  a  most  un 
comfortable  atmosphere  in  the  house,  it  feels 
as  if  some  one  had  been  crying  all  through  it, 
and  Harry  is  so  sensitive  to  such  influences. 
I  wish  mother  would  stop  worrying.  I  am 
sure  George  does  not  worry,  and  both  of  them 


AN   UNWELCOME    VISITOR.  131 

admit  everything  is  well  settled.  It  is  not 
fair!  it  is  not  kind!"  So  love  misjudges 
love. 

Mrs.  Pennington  had  in  reality  endeavored 
to  be  all  that  Harriet  wished  ;  she  was  not 
even  conscious  that  she  had  failed  ;  for  she 
had  been  brought  that  day  face  to  face  with  a 
great  shame  and  calamity,  and  compelled  to 
look  at  it  in  a  variety  of  new  and  perplexing 
aspects.  The  letter  she  had  been  watching 
for  had  arrived  just  as  her  children  left  the 
house  ;  if  they  had  not  been  so  occupied  with 
each  other,  they  might  have  seen  Quayle  put 
it  into  her  hands. 

As  soon  as  they  had  closed  the  garden  gate 
she  fled  with  it  to  her  own  room.  It  was  from 
Robert  Pennington,  and  read  thus: 

MY  DEAR  MARTHA  :  Any  further  search  is 
useless.  The  grave  has  shut  up  that  sorrow 
forever.  I  feel  so  sure  of  it  that  I  have  dis 
missed  all  the  men  employed.  I  advise  you 
to  forget,  and  permit  me  to  say,  my  dear 
sister,  that  the  best  way  to  forget  wrongs  is 
to  forgive  them. 

Your  affectionate  brother, 

ROBERT  PENNINGTON. 


132  PERT  OP  CLAY. 

This  message,  according  to  all  human  ideas, 
ought  to  have  filled  Martha  Pennington's 
heart  with  gratitude  and  rest.  But  instead,  it 
tore  the  veil  of  years  from  her  terror,  and 
made  her  look  with  clear  eyes  at  the  future. 
In  the  first  place  she  did  not  believe  its  assur 
ance.  She  had  a  presentiment  that  her  brother 
was  wrong.  Bodings  unsanctioned  by  her  will 
turned  her  sick  and  faint.  And  the  injunction 
to  forgive  almost  angered  her.  If  the  man 
were  indeed  dead !  If  she  were  sure  that  he 
could  never  injure  her  and  hers  any  more, 
then  she  would  cease  to  fear  him  and  might 
pardon.  But  who  can  forgive  the  haunting 
fear  that  turns  their  daily  life  into  bitterness? 
She  had  been  longing  and  praying  for  an 
assurance  of  her  deliverance,  and  nothing  had 
come  to  her  but  her  brother's  private  belief. 

She  thought  little  of  it.  She  was  a  woman 
who  lived  much  on  the  boundaries  of  the 
other  world.  The  division  that  sunders  spirits 
and  shadow-casting  men,  an  insurmountable 
wall  to  Robert  Pennington,  was  to  her  but  a 
veil,  that  in  some  brighter  moments  was  often 
partially  drawn  aside.  She  had  frequently 
put  her  impressions  and  visions  against  his 


AN  Vti  WELCOME  VlstrdR.  133 

most  practical  knowledge,  and  found  herself 
correct.  She  had  indeed  that  wondrous  gift 
of  insight  which  enabled  her  to  stand  upon  the 
isthmus  connecting  here  and  there,  and  com 
mand  the  counsels  of  both  worlds  ;  and  unwel 
come  as  its  denial  of  Robert  Pennington's 
letter  was,  she  felt  that  the  spiritual  message 
was  the  true  one. 

"  The  man  lives  !  I  know  he  is  not  dead  !  " 
she  cried  in  those  passionate  undertones  which 
concealment  of  sorrow  had  taught  her.  "  I 
know  he  is  not  dead ;  thus  far  I  feel  the 
movements  of  his  soul,  almost  the  beating  of 
his  heart." 

She  was  glad  when  the  day  was  over ;  glad 
when  the  effort  of  welcoming  Harriet  back 
was  fulfilled,  thankful  to  hear  Quayle  stumb 
ling  upstairs  to  bed.  For  as  no  one  waited 
for  George,  he  was  always  the  last  to  go,  and 
she  had  at  length  that  sense  of  solitude  so 
grateful  to  the  weary-hearted.  She  put  on 
her  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  she  unbound 
her  hair,  and  sat  down  before  the  fire. 

Perhaps  she  slept  a  little,  for  it  was  with  a 
start  she  awakened,  and  an  impression  that 
some  one  was  either  at  the  door  or  the  win- 


134  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

dow.  Her  heart  beat  wildly,  she  had  a 
moment's  genuine  terror.  But  she  controlled 
it  immediately  ;  "  George,  of  course,"  she  said, 
as  she  went  softly  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 
No  one  was  there. 

"  He  has  thought  I  was  asleep  and  gone." 
Somehow  this  explanation  did  not  satisfy  her. 
She  threw  wood  and  turf  upon  the  fire,  and 
sat  down  again,  conscious  of  a  singular  intent- 
ness  of  attitude.  Her  thoughts  drifted  into 
unhappy  channels.  She  lifted  her  Bible  and 
opened  it  at  the  psalms  for  the  day.  But 
their  promises  slipped  past  her  consciousness, 
and  she  could  not  make  personal  their  com-, 
forting  words. 

"I  will  go  to  rest,"  she  whispered;  "perhaps 
sleep  may  give  me  the  assurance  which  Rob 
ert's  letter  utterly  fails  to  do."  She  cast  a 
glance  at  her  bed  and  half-rose  from  her  chair. 
Something  arrested  her,  and  she  kept  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  heavy  moreen  curtains  which 
were  drawn  between  it  and  the  outer  wall. 
They  certainly  moved,  and  the  movement 
went  like  a  shiver  from  the  head  to  the  foot  of 
the  insensible  couch.  She  felt  that  some  liv 
ing  presence  was  there.  She  was  gliding 


AN   UNWELCOME    VISITOR.  135 

lapidly  to  the  door  when  a  man  came  out 
from  the  shadowy  curtains  and  confronted  her. 

One  glance  at  him  was  sufficient.  She 
appeared  to  turn  to  stone.  A  quick,  deep 
gasp  was  the  only  effort  she  made  to  speak,  or 
to  arrest  the  numb  horror  stealing  over  her. 
The  sound  of  roaring  waters  was  in  her  ears, 
a  thick  darkness  was  enveloping  her.  She  was 
losing  all  control  over  herself,  she  was  faint 
ing,  dying  perhaps.  But  the  man  made  a 
step  towards  her,  and  a  dreadful  thought 
thrilled  her  from  head  to  foot,  he  will  touch 
me.  A  supreme  effort  of  will  enabled  her  to 
force  back  the  oblivion  and  recall  her  senses  to 
their  posts,  her  soul  to  its  miserable  pre 
eminence  of  endurance.  For  she  was  sure 
that  the  sharpest  consciousness  of  mental 
agony  would  be  more  tolerable  than  the  touch 
of  his  hand. 

She  tottered  back  to  her  chair,  and  leaning 
upon  it  for  support,  turned  her  face  full  upon 
the  intruder.  Its  expression  of  terror  and 
loathing  was  all  the  more  terrible  because  it 
was  an  intelligent  terror  and  loathing.  She 
knew  whom  she  was  face  to  face  with. 

He  was   a  man    who    might    be    any    age 


of  CLAV. 

between  fifty  and  sixty,  a  man  stamped  with 
the  image  of  sin  and  shame  and  misery,  a 
hellish  mintage  which  no  one  can  mistake. 
He  had  decent  clothes  on,  but  there  is  a  point 
at  which  decent  clothing  fails  to  impart  re 
spectability,  and  this  man  had  reached  it. 
His  garments  hung  on  him  as  if  ashamed  of 
their  office,  as  if  they  refused  to  become  a  part 
of  the  personality  of  him  who  claimed  them. 
His  countenance  had  still  traces  of  great  beauty, 
but  it  was  marred  and  disfigured  by  exposure 
to  weather,  by  wearing  passions,  by  sickness 
and  neglect,  by  every  element  that  batters  and 
defaces  and  deforms  humanity.  There  was 
not  a  single  thing  about  the  man  which  could 
inspire  favor,  unless  you  looked  steadily  into 
his  eyes.  They  who  either  of  intention  or 
accident  essayed  this  test  were  likely  to 
experience  a  wretched  uncertainty  which 
would  not  be  shaken  off. 

For  this  outcast  still  had  a  soul,  and  it 
looked  through  them.  From  its  miserable 
prison-house,  belied,  degraded  by  every  other 
sense,  it  still  entreated  through  the  deep-set, 
dark,  troubled  eyes,  a  pity  and  forbearance 
which  it  seemed  unreasonable  to  give. 


AN   UNWELCOME    VISITOR.  137 

But  Martha  Pennington,  though  she  knew 
the  man,  did  not  consciously  look  at  him. 
She  was  not  thinking  of  him,  but  of  those 
to  whom  his  presence  meant  an  unbearable 
shame  and  ruin.  As  this  result  became  more 
and  more  clear  to  her,  anger  conquered  all 
other  feelings.  Her  face  was  suffused  with 
blood  hot  as  fire,  her  eyes  flashed,  her  attitude 
was  that  of  a  spirit  watchful  and  defiant. 

He  saw  the  change,  and  perhaps  mistook 
the  cause,  for  he  advanced  a  few  steps,  hold 
ing  out  his  hands  palms  downward,  their  dep 
recating  gesture  strangely  sympathetic  with 
his  bowed  head  and  dropped  eyes. 

"  Martha  !  "  He  spoke  very  softly,  but  his 
voice  troubled  the  air,  and  beat  like  a  hammer 
upon  the  heart  and  ears  of  the  woman  whose 
name  he  called. 

"  Martha !  say  one  kind  word  to  me,  after 
so  many  silent,  awful  years  !  "  and  he  took 
another  step  towards  her. 

But  she  retreated  with  an  unmistakable  air 
of  anger  and  fear,  saying  : 

"  Do  not  touch  me,  do  not  speak  to  me  ! 
Oh,  why  did  you  come  here?" 

"  I   wanted    to    see   you   and    the    children. 


I38  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

Martha,  let  me  touch  the  hem  of  your 
dress." 

"  Not  one  step  nearer.  Your  presence  here 
is  an  infamy,  all  the  more  terrible  because  you 
know  you  have  calculated  on  the  fact  that  I 
would  suffer  much,  ere  I  would  reveal  it. 
How  did  you  come  ?  Has  any  human  being 
seen  you  ?  " 

"No  one.  I  found  out  your  room.  The 
window  was  open.  I  climbed  up  by  the  vine, 
and  waited  behind  the  curtains  until  I  thought 
every  one  was  asleep." 

"  For  God's  sake,  go.  You  will  kill  me  if 
you  stay  a  moment  longer.  I  must  have  time 
to  think — to  pray — " 

"  Martha  !     I  am — I  was  your — " 

"  Say  another  word  and  I  will  call  the  whole 
house.  I  am  at  the  last  moment  of  endur 
ance.  Go !  " 

"  Talk  of  women  being  forgiving — Lies ! 
They  are  the  most  cruel  of  created  things, 
they  are  as  cruel  as  devils.  They  have  no 
pity,  even  on  the  wretch  they  have  once 
loved,  for  you  did  love  me,  once." 

"  God  knows  it,  I  do  pity  you.  But  what 
of  my  children  ?  Will  you  ruin  their  lives  as 


AN   UNWELCOME  VISITOR.  139 

you  ruined  mine  ?  And  what  pity  is  in  your 
heart?  I  shall  go  mad  with  anguish  if  you 
stay  here,  and  yet  you  stay." 

"  I  will  go,  Martha.     God  help  me  !     How, 
and  when,  will  you  see  me  to-morrow  ?  " 

"Come  to  the  front  door  at  eleven  o'clock." 
"  Not  one  word  of  kindness,  Martha?  " 
She  sank  into  her  chair,  and  with  closed 
eyes  shook  her  head  positively.  For  a 
moment  he  watched  the  wretched  woman, 
then  softly  raising  the  window  he  went  down 
the  vine  as  lightly  as  a  bird,  and  disappeared 
among  the  shrubbery.  Ten  minutes  after 
wards  he  met  George  Pennington  on  the 
geary.  The  young  man  was  humming  a  gay 
song,  and  when  he  asked,  "  What's  the  hour, 
sir  ?  "  George  struck  a  match,  and  with  per 
fect  good-humor  answered,  "A  quarter  to 
twelve,  and  good-night,  sir!"  The  eyes 
of  the  two  men  met.  George  felt  a  sud 
den  pity  and  liking,  and  after  he  had  gone 
a  few  steps,  he  stopped  and  hailed  the 
stranger. 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Don't  go  too  far  ahead  without  minding 
your  feet.     It  is  a  dangerous   road   at  night, 


140  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

and  you  might  be  over  the  cliffs  before  you 
knew  it." 

"  Thank  you,  it  would  not  make  much 
matter." 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  would  ;  so  take  care." 

There  was  no  reply,  and  George  went  on 
without  further  words.  But  he  did  not  sing 
any  more,  and  he  thought  to  himself :  "  That 
was  a  strange  thing  to  say.  The  poor  fellow 
is  in  trouble,  money  or  women,  I  dare  say." 

As  for  Martha  Pennington,  she  sat  with  a 
stupid  weight  upon  her  senses,  a  dismal, 
almost  sullen  stillness,  all  through  that  bitter, 
lonely  night.  But  when  the  cold  sweetness  of 
the  dawn  touched  the  shadows,  she  remem 
bered  Him  who  had  trodden  the  wine-press 
alone,  and  to  whom  all  the  dim  heights  of  woe 
were  mysteriously  familiar.  And  she  prayed 
as  souls  pray  in  extremity,  not  for  herself,  but 
for  those  whom  she  loved  more  tenderly  than 
herself.  She  was  alone,  and  in  the  dark  upon 
the  sea  of  sorrow,  and  all  its  waves  and  bil 
lows  were  going  over  her;  but  still  her  en 
treaty  was,  "  Save,  Master,  the  souls  that  sail 
with  me ! " 

When  she  rose  from  her  knees  the  first  rays 


AN   UNWELCOME  VISITOR.  14* 

of  sunshine  fell  like  a  finger  of  light  across  an 
open  page,  and  she  knew  it  was  her  answer : 

"  Go  in  peace  this  day  to  the  Haven  wide ; 
Thou  shalt  see  His  face  and  be  satisfied : 
Thou  shalt  know  His  heart  and  rest  in  Him, 
With  a  peace  that  passeth  thy  knowledge  dim ; 
Not  for  thyself  alone,  but  for  all 
Thy  heart  has  yearned  for,  great  and  small. 

"  And  some  shall  enter  the  Haven  wide, 
Full  sail  on  the  breast  of  a  glorious  tide  : 

And  some  shall  come, 
Sore  battered  and  spent  from  an  angry  sea ; 
But  thine  heart  shall  count  them  one  by  one, 
Till  God  has  gathered  them  all  to  thee." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

ONE    KIND    OF    DEATH. 

"  When  Work  and  Will  awake  too  late,  to  gaze 
After  their  life  sailed  by,  and  hold  their  breath — 
Ah  !  who  shall  dare  to  search  through  what  sad  maze 
Thenceforth  their  incommunicable  ways 
Follow  the  desultory  feet  of  Death  ?  " 

"  Stand  still,  fond  fettered  wretch,  while  Memory's  art 
Parades  the  Past  before  thy  face,  and  lures 
Thy  spirit  to  her  passionate  portraitures ; 
Till  the  tempestuous  tide-gates  flung  apart 
Flood  with  wild  will  the  hollows  of  thy  heart, 
And  thy  heart  rends  thee,  and  thy  body  endures." 

WHEN  we  consider  what  a  difference  there 
often  is  between  the  pitch  of  one  human 
heart  and  the  pitch  of  others  surrounding  it, 
we  may  understand  easily  the  discords  that 
perplex  daily  life.  Mrs.  Pennington  came  to 
the  breakfast-table  in  a  mood  which  could 
only  be  represented  in  music  by  the  deep  sad 
ness  and  pathetic  lament  of  a  minor  adagio. 
The  tempers  of  George  and  Harriet  resembled 
the  rapid  lights  and  easily  grasped  phrases  of 
dance  music  ;  quick  harmonies  returning  fre- 
142 


ONE  KIND  OF  DEATH.  143 

quently  to  their  key-note,  and  expressing 
easily  reached,  every-day  happiness.  In  fact, 
Harriet  was  going  immediately  after  breakfast 
into  Castletown.  She  was  first  to  visit  her 
dressmaker,  and  then  she  had  an  engagement 
to  lunch  with  the  Dinwoodies,  where  Colonel 
Sutcliffe  was  to  join  her. 

George  also  had  a  pleasant  day  in  prospect. 
Bella  was  going  on  a  visit  to  her  brother's  wife 
at  Ballabeg,  and  George  expected  to  meet  her 
there.  They  were  to  take  a  boat  and  spend 
the  day  in  drifting  about  the  pretty  coves  and 
inlets  of  the  rocky  coast. 

Harriet  frankly  detailed  her  plans.  The  suc 
cess  of  George's  depended  upon  his  secrecy, 
and  he  spoke  of  a  canter  with  young  Kelly  to 
Kirk-Santon,  and  the  possibility  of  his  joining 
the  Dinwoodie  lunch  party.  But  he  entrusted 
Harriet  with  some  pretty  excuses  if  he  found 
himself  unable  to  be  back.  And  it  is  fair  to 
say,  that  Harriet  did  not  believe  either  in  the 
canter  to  Kirk-Santon  or  in  his  half-promise  to 
meet  her  at  the  Dinwoodies'. 

When  Mrs.  Pennington  had  left  the  table 
she  said,  "  I  do  not  expect  to  see  you  until 
evening,  George." 


144  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

"  I  said  I  might  come  to  the  lunch  party." 

"  You  might,  but  you  won't.  Shall  I  tell 
you  the  reason  why  you  won't  ?  Bella  Clu- 
cas." 

George  bowed  politely.  "  It  is  useless  to 
contradict  you,  Harriet.  A  woman  always 
convicts  those  whom  she  has  once  accused." 

"  George,  just  for  to-day  try  to  be  agreeable. 
Kitty  is  expecting  you.  After  lunch,  if  the 
weather  keeps  fair,  we  are  all  going  to  the 
loveliest  bit  of  sand  and  water." 

"  All  ?     How  many  are  going  ?  " 

"There  will  be  about  twenty,  the  nicest 
young  people  Kitty  knows,  and  Kitty  takes 
her  guitar,  and  Major  Hamilton  his  violin,  and 
as  the  tide  comes  in  we  shall  float  home  with 
it,  singing." 

"Thanks,  Harriet.  You  have  quite  decided 
me.  I  shall  not  join  you." 

"  I  thought  you  loved  the  sea." 

"  I  do  love  the  sea.  It  is  the  one  place 
where  nature  has  her  own  way.  But  I  won't 
join  any  mob  of  pleasure-seekers  upon  it.  In 
fact,  I  hate  parties  of  pleasure  either  on  sea  or 
land,  they  damage  everything,  like  flies  in 
summer." 


KIND  OF  DEA  Tit.  14$ 

"  In  fact,  no  one's  company  is  comparable  to 
your  own,  and  to  that  fisher-girl's." 

"  I  will  not  contradict  you.  A  woman  has  a 
suspicion  in  the  morning,  by  night  she  has 
clothed  it  in  absolute  truth.  She  is  then  ready 
to  assert  it,  to  swear  to  it,  if  need  be." 

"I  say  you  are  going  to  spend  the  day  with 
Bella  Clucas,  somewhere  or  other." 

"  You  are  an  oracle,  of  course.  Have  you 
any  message  for  Bella?" 

"  Have  I ! " 

"You  used  to  be  very  fond  of  Bella." 

"  I  loved  Bella  very  dearly  once,  as  long  as 
the  girl  behaved  herself." 

"Oh,  nonsense,  Harriet !  The  girl  has  done 
nothing  wrong.  I  don't  believe  you  ever 
loved  Bella.  The  love  of  women  for  their  own 
sex  is  a  mere  negation,  a  kind  of  cessation 
of  hostilities.  There  are  no  Davids  and  Jona 
thans  among  them." 

"  So  you  imagine  men  have  a  monopoly  of 
friendship  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"You  are  mistaken.  I  did  love  Bella,  until 
Bella  behaved  in  a  way  I  thought  was  not 
right." 


i4^  £EET  OP  CLAY. 

"  Men  do  not  limit  their  liking  by  such  a 
narrow  rule.  What  if  Penrith  had?"  He 
spoke  sternly,  his  face  clouded,  and  he  turned 
abruptly  away. 

"  If  I  were  you  I  would  not  name  Penrith." 

"  I  feel  differently,  Harriet.  I  force  myself 
to  name  him  very  often.  I  do  not  wish  to  for 
get  the  kindness  he  showed  me.  He  has  never 
uttered  a  word  of  reproach  ;  for  that  reason,  I 
reproach  myself.  Poor  Bella's  sole  offence  is, 
that  she  disobeyed  your  orders.  Had  you  any 
right  to  give  her  an  order  ?  You  have  known 
her  all  yourlife,  and  yet  you  cannot  forgive  her." 

"  Bella  goes  on  disobeying.  I  would  forgive 
her  if  she  would  never  speak  to  you  again." 

"  Precisely.  It  is  as  I  say.  A  women  loves 
a  women  until  she  offends  her,  but  she  loves  a 
man  in  spite  of  his  offence,  that  is,  if  she  loves 
him  at  all.  She  will  forgive  and  forgive  and 
forgive,  and  go  on  loving  him  even  though  he 
go  on  offending  her." 

"  There  may  be  such  women,  George." 

"  There  are  such  women.  They  are  beyond 
numbering,  God  bless  them  !  And  it  is  well 
for  poor  fellows  like  me  that  they  do  exist. 
There's  mother,  for  instance — " 


KIND  OP  DEATtt.  U7 

"  Oh  I  shall  talk  no  more  with  you.  It  is 
quite  useless,  and  I  have  to  be  at  the  dress 
maker's  at  ten  o'clock." 

"  Shall  I  go  to  Castletown  with  you  ?  Do 
you  walk?  " 

"  I  have  no  time  for  walking  now.  Laxey 
will  have  to  drive  me.  Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye.  Say  as  many  pretty  things  to 
Miss  Kitty  as  you  can  remember  for  me." 

"  No,  sir,  I  will  not." 

"  All  right.  I  will  say  them  myself  some 
day." 

Mrs.  Pennington,  pacing  restlessly  to  and  fro 
on  the  garden-walk,  heard  this  chatter  with 
extreme  anxiety.  She  was  so  wishful  for  both 
George  and  Harriet  to  be  from  home  when 
her  visitor  called,  and  every  moment's  delay 
seemed  interminable.  Then,  after  Harriet  had 
gone,  George  perversely  wandered  about  the 
garden  with  his  cigar,  until,  feeling  his  longer 
presence  intolerable,  she  bade  him  a  faint  adieu 
and  went  into  the  house.  George  had  been 
waiting  for  this  very  event.  With  a  slow  and 
studied  nonchalance  he  then  passed  through 
the  gate,  and  as  he  did  so  he  perceived  a  man 
sitting  upon  a  great  rock  which  jutted  out  pf 


148  PEST  OF 

the  unplanted  place  between  the  house  and 
the  sea. 

"  I  believe  that  is  the  very  same  person  who 
asked  me  the  time.  I  wonder  if  he  has  been 
there  all  night  ?  "  As  George  passed,  the  man 
rose  and  looked  towards  him,  and  though  the 
distance  between  them  could  well  have  ex 
cused  recognition  even  from  acquaintances, 
George  bowed  politely,  and  the  stranger  re 
turned  the  compliment. 

"  He  is  in  trouble,  I  am  sure.  Very  likely 
hiding  from  his  creditors.  I  have  a  fellow- 
feeling  for  a  man  in  that  fix,  every  one  hasn't 
a  mother,  and  friends.  I  wouldn't  care  much 
what  kind  of  a  mess  he  was  in,  I'd  help  him. 
My  sympathies  go  naturally  to  the  weaker 
side,  the  debtor  side."  He  walked  slowly 
away  to  such  thoughts,  and  the  man  who  was 
their  prompter  turned  so  as  to  keep  him  in 
sight  as  long  as  possible. 

It  was  then  about  ten  o'clock.  In  another 
hour  she  would  have  to  drink  the  cup  she  had 
prayed  might  not  be  put  to  her  lips,  the  cup 
she  had  mingled  for  herself  in  the  intoxication 
of  youthful  love  and  wilfulness.  But  the 
terror  and  suffering  of  the  night  hours  had 


ONE  KIND  OP  DEATH.  i4$ 

reduced  her  to  a  state  of  passive  endurance. 
She  could  no  longer  think  or  plan,  no  longer 
struggle  against  the  calamity  which  had  be- 
fallen  her.  She  was  in  the  condition  of  the 
combatant  who  has  ceased  to  count  the  blows 
he  receives,  who  has  no  strength  left  with 
which  to  return  them. 

And  yet  through  all  this  inert  suffering  she 
was  conscious  that  her  soul  was  gathering 
strength.  Whatever  might  arise,  it  would 
doubtless  be  ready  to  meet  the  occasion,  and 
make  the  best  terms  possible.  She  stood  at 
an  upper  window  watching  the  garden  gate. 
If  possible  she  would  not  let  her  servants  see 
her  strange  visitor.  In  case  of  any  emergency 
their  sympathy  was  sure,  but  she  was  not  a 
woman  who  had  ever  voluntarily  sought  sym 
pathy.  It  had  been  rather  her  habit  to  sup 
press  her  feelings,  to  habitually  turn  her  heart 
into  a  sanctuary,  and  therein  take  refuge. 

This  habit,  which  was  the  result  of  a  natur 
ally  timid  disposition,  had  perhaps  made  her 
attach  an  overwhelming  significance  to  a  cir 
cumstance  which  was  really  of  gravity  and 
importance.  She  was  not  in  the  highest  sense 
of  the  term  an  educated  woman,  and  she  was 


i56  FEET  OF  CLA¥. 

therefore  subject  to  those  all-absorbing  pas 
sions  which  tyrannize  minds  revolving  in  small 
orbits.  And  her  secluded  life  had  gradually 
turned  her  apprehensions  and  her  opinions  into 
fixed  ideas.  She  had  suffered  herself  to  dwell 
in  an  atmosphere  of  foreboding,  and  the  thing 
she  had  feared  had  happened  to  her.  Perhaps 
indeed  her  anticipation  of  evil  had  called  to 
her  the  evil.  The  soul  has  marvellous  powers 
of  attraction.  In  the  body  and  out  of  the 
body,  sleeping  or  dreaming,  its  fears  and  its 
longings  find  out  their  object  and  act  upon  it. 

Even  as  she  stood  at  the  window  letting  her 
thoughts  drift  in  angry  tumult,  uncontrolled, 
unreasoning,  the  man  sitting  on  the  rock  out 
side  her  garden  was  influenced  by  them.  He 
moved  uneasily,  he  looked  at  his  watch,  he 
stood  up  and  looked  at  the  house,  he  began 
slowly  to  make  his  way  to  it.  Something  of 
her  mood  had  touched  him,  pressed  upon  him, 
stirred  in  his  soul  a  responsive  restlessness  and 
anger. 

She  saw  him  coming,  and  even  in  that  su 
preme  moment  an  unconscious  womanly  feel 
ing  made  her  pause  before  her  mirror.  She 
had  dressed  herself  purposely  for  this  inter* 


ONE  KIND   OF  DtiATff.  l^i 

view,  and  she  looked  with  a  sad  and  cold  face 
at  her  reflection.  The  white  collar  worn  at 
the  breakfast  table  had  been  removed,  nothing 
relieved  the  sombre  blackness  of  her  garments. 
A  nervous  movement  of  her  left  hand,  and  a 
rapid  glance  at  it,  was  accounted  for  by 
the  absence  of  the  plain  gold  ring  which 
she  usually  wore.  If  he  looked  to  find  it 
there,  he  would  understand  what  he  might 
perhaps  be  pitiful  enough  to  spare  her  say 
ing. 

She  met  him  on  the  threshold,  he  had  no 
necessity  to  knock  for  admittance ;  and  she 
silently  led  him  to  the  large  parlor,  a  room 
seldom  used  except  for  purposes  of  entertain 
ment.  The  door  was  closed,  and  they  stood 
face  to  face,  only  the  blank  surface  of  a  table 
between  them.  The  man  had  possibly  been 
on  the  geary  all  night  ;  he  looked  like  it. 
Martha's  first  thought  regarded  his  neglected 
toilet.  Its  disorder  typified  to  her  his  awful 
fall,  for  he  seemed  unconscious  of  its  short 
comings,  and  indifferent  to  them.  All  his 
soul  was  in  his  eyes.  The  rest  of  his  face  was 
but  a  battered  oval  of  weatherbeaten  and 
passion-beaten  human  clay.  But  oh,  the 


OF  CLAY. 

misery,  oh,  the  longing,  oh,  the  imploration 
in  those  two  soul-lit  eyes  ! 

Martha  felt  their  gaze,  and  would  not  en 
counter  it.  She  knew  the  power  of  old,  and 
by  a  tremendous  effort  of  will  compelled  her 
self  to  withstand  its  influence.  She  was  the 
first  to  speak,  and  her  words  were  slow  and 
heavy  like  those  uttered  by  a  sleeper. 

"  You  want  money,  of  course  ?  I  could  give 
you  a  little — " 

"  I  do  not  want  money.  I  could  give  you  a 
great  deal,  if  you  would  have  it,  honest 
money,  earned  with  hard,  honest  work." 

Her  face  flushed  angrily,  and  she  made  a 
movement  with  her  head  and  hands  which 
there  was  no  mistaking. 

"  Very  well.     I  do  not  offer  it." 

"  If  you  do  not  need  money  why  did  you 
come?  How  cruel,  how  cruel  of  you  to 
do  so  !" 

"  I  came,  as  I  said  last  night,  to  see  you 
and  the — " 

"For  God's  sake,  listen  to  me.  George  is  a 
soldier,  will  you  brand  him  with  infamy  and 
drive  him  out  of  all  respectable  society  ? 
Harriet  is  betrothed  to  a  gentleman  of  stain- 


ONE  KIND   OF  DEATH.  153 

less  name  and  good  estate. '  Your  existence  is 
unknown  to  them.  You  ruined  my  life.  If 
there  is  anything  in  heaven  or  earth  you  rev 
erence,  for  its  sake  spare  my  children  ?  " 

From  her  dropped  lids  the  heavy  tears  fell 
like  rain  upon  the  table  between  them.  She 
had  involuntarily  clasped  her  hands.  Her 
attitude  was  at  the  moment  touchingly  noble 
in  its  extremity. 

He  drew  his  lips  together,  his  breath  came 
heavily,  he  touched  her  left  hand  and  said  in  a 
thick  whisper  : 

"  You  have  removed  our  ring.  It  was  there 
last  night." 

"  The  plain  ring  I  wore  last  night  I  bought 
myself  to  prevent  remark.  Our  ring  was  brok 
en  in  two  by  your  own  act." 

"  Dear  God,  need  you  tell  me  that  ?  Can 
not  love  mend  it  ?" 

"  There  is  no  love  left.  I  did  not  see  you 
to  discuss  that  subject.  It  is  for  my  children's 
sake  I  speak  to  you." 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  " 

"  To  efface  yourself,  to  be  dead  to  them, 
to  go  where  those  who  knew  you  once  can 
never  meet  ycu." 


154  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

"  If  I  do  this,  when  the  children  need  you 
no  longer,  will  you  remember  me  ?  You  are 
my  wife,  yes,  I  will  say  the  words,  they  are 
true  words." 

"They  are  not  true,  and  I  am  not  your 
wife.  Your  cruelty  set  me  free,  your  crime 
set  me  free,  the  law  of  my  country  set  me 
free." 

"  Nothing  can  free  you,  nothing !  You 
have  a  conscience,  ask  it." 

She  sank  into  a  chair  and  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands.  The  stillness,  the  pathos  of 
her  whole  figure  touched  him  beyond  tears  or 
words.  Pure  and  good  and  delicate  as  she 
was,  this  degraded  husband  of  her  youth 
dared  to  love  her.  At  that  moment  she  was 
far  dearer  to  him  than  she  had  been  on  her 
bridal  morn.  He  would  have  given  the  resi 
due  of  his  life  to  have  taken  her  in  his  arms,  to 
have  comforted  her  beyond  the  power  of  earth 
to  trouble. 

"  Martha !  " 

She  had  forgotten  for  a  moment.  She  lifted 
her  head,  and  his  eyes,  misty  with  tears  and 
shining  with  love,  caught  her  upward  glance. 
They  troubled  her  heart,  went  down  into  its 


ONE  KIND  OF  DEATH.  155 

depths  and  troubled  its  sweetest  and  saddest 
memories.  The  angel  might  be  good  or  evil, 
but  it  had  the  power. 

"  Martha  ! " 

"Yes." 

"  I  will  do  all  you  require.  I  will  never  re 
veal  myself  to  the  children,  without  your 
permission.  If  you  desire  it,  you  shall  see 
me  no  more  on  earth,  if  you  will  grant  me 
one  favor." 

"What  do  you  wish?" 

"  Call  me  once  by  my  own  name,  by  my 
Christian  name.  Let  me  touch  your  hand. 
Speak  kindly  to  me  just  once,  and  I  will 

trouble  you  no  more." 
«  j " 

"  Do  not  say  you  cannot.  Oh,  remember 
the  days  we  went  hand-in-hand  through  Low- 
ther  woods,  the  days  we  sailed  on  Winder- 
mere,  and  rode  together  over  Keswick  fells. 
I  have  been  punished  beyond  my  deserts,  de 
graded  and  tortured,  condemned  for  one  wrong 
to  suffer  a  life-long  retribution.  When  justice 
is  satisfied  surely  mercy  may  say  one  word  of 
pity.  Martha,  will  you  say  it?  " 

She   rose,  and   he   looked   at   her  steadily. 


156  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

She  was  trying  to  conquer  her  repugnance, 
and  she  whispered  her  children's  names  to 
strengthen  herself  for  the  effort.  He  waited 
patiently.  If  he  gained  so  much  from  her, 
time  might  give  him  more.  The  absence  of 
speech,  the  very  attitude  of  waiting  was  in  his 
favor.  Her  thoughts  moved  rapidly  to  their 
end.  The  thing  required  of  her  was  a  per 
sonal  humiliation.  It  would  save  her  dear 
ones  a  far  more  bitter  experience.  If  she 
drank  the  cup  it  might  pass  them  by,  and  for 
their  sake  she  could  drink  it  to  the  dregs. 

Her  decision  made,  she  was  exactly  the 
woman  to  fulfill  its  obligation  with  a  noble 
generosity.  He  had  calculated  upon  this 
magnanimity,  and  he  watched  with  a  beat 
ing  heart  its  gathering  influence.  He  did  not 
hurry  her  by  a  word  or  movement,  but  as 
he  watched  her  changing  face,  he  inhaled 
deep  draughts  of  the  atmosphere  of  hope  and 
happiness. 

When  she  moved  a  step  towards  him  he 
trembled  with  joy,  but  when  she  said  in  soft, 
sad  inflections,  "  Arthur,  I  ask  your  pity  for 
the  children — and  myself,"  and  put  her  hand 
upon  his  arm,  a  great  sob  answered  her. 


ONE  KIND  OF  DEATH.  157 

She  did  not  at  once  remove  it,  and  he  found 
courage  to  take  it  in  his  own,  to  touch  it  with 
his  lips,  a  kiss  as  reverent  as  that  which  the 
sinner  leaves  at  the  foot  of  the  Cross. 

"  Farewell ! "  His  eyes  looked  down  into 
hers,  and  their  despair  and  love  pierced  her 
like  a  sword.  She  tried  to  speak,  but  could 
find  no  words  that  were  at  once  cold  and  pite 
ous  enough,  and  then  he  was  gone. 

"  Gone !  "  There  was  a  sudden,  sharp  pain 
at  her  heart.  She  felt  as  if  she  was  choking. 
She  rushed  from  the  room  and  fell  senseless 
in  the  wide  hall,  through  which  her  husband's 
steps  had  just  passed. 


*  v 


CHAPTER  IX. 

DRIFTING. 

"  Apt  to  be  foolish  ?    That's  allowed  ; 
But  aisy,  aisy,  the  both  of  them  proud, 
Proud  of  each  other,  and  very  plaised 
The  love  was  at  them  ; 

— Aw,  that's  the  style. 
For  love  is  straight  like  a  little  child  : 
You  loves  me,  and  I  loves  you  ; 
So  what  are  you  wantin'  us  to  do  ? 
Spake  to  the  father  ?     Certainly  not ! 

Time  enough  for  that,  thinks  they  ; 
Or  never  didn'  think  nothin'  about  it ; 
Never  axed,  and  never  doubted — 
Some  way  some  day.     The  world  is  wide, 
And  driftin',  driftin'with  the  tide." 

— T.  E.  BROWN,  "  The  Doctor" 

ON  the  morning  of  the  day  so  eventful  to 
Martha  and  Arthur  Pennington,  Bella  Clu- 
cas  rose  early.     She  rose  singing,  as  people  in 
fine  health  ought  to  do.     And  there  was  nothing 
Ruthie  liked  better  than  to  hear  his  daughter's 
voice  in  the  soft  cadences  of  Brown  William, 
158 


DRIFTING.  159 

or  Mollie  Charrane,  or  some  other  old  Manx 
melody.  As  he  lay  between  waking  and 
sleeping,  enjoying  his  last  delicious  half-hour 
of  conscious  rest,  it  soothed  him  as  a  lullaby 
soothes  a  drowsy  babe. 

He  was  often  cross  and  unreasonable  early  in 
the  morning,  but  it  was  rarely  that  this  mascu 
line  failing  affected  Bella.  Her  bright  beauty, 
her  bright  smile,  her  caressing  words  and  ways 
were  omnipotent  with  the  domestic  tyrant. 
For  her  sake  he  forgave  the  stubborn  facts 
which  compelled  him  to  face  daily  duty,  and 
even  the  domestic  exigencies  which  required 
him  to  speak,  before  he  had  smoked  at  least 
a  couple  of  pipes. 

This  morning  her  singing  set  him  thinking, 
and  not  very  pleasantly.  At  "the  Fishers' 
Luck,"  the  previous  evening,  Michael  Morne 
had  said  a  word  or  two  "jokin'  like  "  which 
had  angered  him  at  the  moment,  and  which 
angered  him  more  every  time  he  remembered 
them.  He  lay  tossing  and  muttering  to  him 
self,  until  the  grumble  gathered  volume  enough 
to  be  distinctly  heard  by  Mary,  as  she  stood 
by  the  breakfast-table  skimming  the  milk. 

"  My  Bella  marry  one  of  the  quality !     Aw, 


160  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

divil  the  lot  of  them,  a  humbugging  crowd  ! 
My  Bella  marry  yandher  fool  of  a  captain ! 
That's  a  big  lie,  and  they  may  put  it  down  at 
once.  I  happen  to  know  that.  Happen  to 
know  it  partikkiler.  Aw  bless  me !  My  Bella 
marry  a  stranger!  The  shame  it  would  be, 
and  the  wrong,  and  me  to  be  standin'  by,  and 
seein'  it  all !  Is  it  a  fool  or  worse  they're 
thinkin'  me  ?  Too  mad  to  curse  I  was  last 
night,  but  I'll  be  owing  Michael  nothin'at  all  if 
we  meet  again  ;  nothin'  at  all,  God  bless  me ! " 

He  pulled  his  blue  flannel  clothing  on  with 
a  viciousness  that  the  invocation  did  not  agree 
with,  and  came  to  the  fireside  with  a  face  de 
fiant  to  his  entire  small  world,  except  Bella. 
When  she  stooped  over,  and  put  his  boiled 
herring  before  him,  and  peeped  into  his  face, 
his  eyes  brightened  to  her  glance,  and  a  half- 
reluctant  smile  puckered  the  corners  of  his 
grim  mouth. 

She  affected  her  brother  Gale  in  much  the 
same  way,  only  Gale  was  too  proud  to  show  it. 
A  young  Manxman  does  not  permit  his  wo 
men  to  see  their  power  over  him.  He  has  his 
domestic  dignity  to  keep  intact.  Gale's  father 
had  arrived  at  an  age  when  his  authority  was 


DRIFTING.  161 

as  settled  as  that  of  Queen  Victoria,  and  of 
course  he  could  be  more  tolerant  and  more 
demonstrative.  Yet,  equally  with  his  father, 
Gale  felt  the  influence  of  Bella's  bright  face, 
and  when  she  gave  him  his  fish  with  a  smile, 
his  heart  responded  to  it,  although  he  received 
her  attentions  with  an  almost  boorish  indif 
ference. 

When  the  state  of  the  fishing  business  per 
mitted  Ruthie  and  Gale  to  breakfast  at  home, 
it  was  a  meal  usually  eaten  in  stately  silence. 
The  men  were  supposed  to  be  pre-occupied 
with  the  business  of  the  day,  a  subject  not  to 
be  lightly  discussed  with  women,  and  Mary 
and  Bella  did  not  feel  themselves  at  liberty  to 
break  the  masculine  reserve  which  the  lords  of 
the  household  affected. 

A  little  flutter  of  flattering  attention  then 
Avaited  for  Ruthie  when  he  pushed  his  plate 
aside  and  said  ;  "  Bella,  I  want  to  talk  to  you. 
There  was  words  said  with  your  name  last 
night  I'm  not  likin',  nor  Gale  likin',  and  more 
of  the  same  kind  will  be  makin'  it  rather  dan 
ger's  for  somebody.  Aw  yes  !  " 

"  What  words,  father?  And  you  shouldn'  let 
anybody  be  talkin'  of  me,  it's  not  like  you." 


162  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

"Aw  then,  is  it  lies  they're  tellin'?  Say  so, 
and  I'll  make  them  tired  to  death  of  the  dirty 
job  they're  at.  It's  Captain  Pcnnington,  the 
young  rapprebate,  they're  puttin'  with  you. 
Are  you  meetin'  him  on  the  sly  like,  or  are 
you  not  ?  " 

Bella  had  a  moment's  temptation  to  equivo 
cate,  but  the  rough  honesty  and  courage  of  her 
father  had  been  strained  through  her  mother's 
milk  into  her  own  nature,  and  she  looked  him 
squarely  in  the  face  and  answered  : 

"Sly  like!  Nonsense!  Lies!  I'm  not 
axin'  the  town  to  be  watchin'  the  walks  I'm 
takin';  nor  am  I  hidin'  either  my  road  or  my 
company.  Captain  Pennington  was  with 
me  in  the  Glen,  and  on  the  beach ;  more 
than  once  he  was  with  me,  and  may  ill  luck 
come  to  the  hearts  that  could  think  wrong 
where  no  wrong  was." 

"  Listen,  Bella,  my  lass  !  You'll  be  givin'  no 
encouragement  to  the  like  of  Captain  Penning 
ton,  a  poor  scamp  he  is.  I'm  thinkin"  little  of 
him,  spite  of  his  nice  ways  ;  bad  at  the  core, 
and  fond  of  sin  and  takin'  his  fill  of  it,  and 
nothin'  at  all  in  him  for  you  to  be  trustin'  to, 
and  a  stranger,  and  nobody  knowin'  anything 


DRIFTING.  163 

of  the  men  afore  him,  and  not  religious,  nor 
even  the  make-believe  of  it,  aw,  a  bad  lot,  and 
plannin'  and  schemin'  and  never  straight  on 
all  sides." 

"  Aw  then,  who  is  straight  on  all  sides,  fa 
ther?" 

"  I  am  plumb  straight ;  and  so  is  your  bro 
ther  Gale,  allis  savin'  the  thing  we  mane, 
and  doin'  the  thing  that's  right." 

"  Chut,  father  !  I'm  never  seein'  the  man  yet 
v/ho  hadn'  a  fault, — 

'  ould  David's  son 

The  wise  he  was,  and  put  in  the  Bible 
For  the  wise  he  was,  but  unfortnit  li'ble 
To  women,  and  that's  the  way  it  is, 
There  isn'  one  of  us  hasn't  a  list 
To  port  or  starboard.' 

Aw,  bless  me,  faults  enough  in  all  of  us !  " 

"  Not  your  place  to  be  lookin'  for  them  in 
your  own  men  ;  all  right  where  you  are ;  and 
if  a  drop  too  much  or  a  hot  word  and  a  blow, 
we  are  Manx  fishermen,  and  the  like  is  at 
them  all,  and  natheral  as  natheral ! " 

"  As  I  was  sayin',  the  list  in  all  men,  gentle 
men  and  fishers,  and  Captain  Pennington  not 
worse  than  the  rest." 


1 64  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

"  He's  the  divil  himself  and  all  his  works  to 
the  like  of  you  ;  and  if  I  hear  tell  of  spakin' 
to  him,  or  walkin*  with  him,  I'll — I'll  make 
you  sorry  for  it !  "  and  he  struck  the  table  a 
blow  which  caused  every  dish  to  tremble,  and 
one  gay  basin  which  stood  at  his  side  to  fall 
upon  the  floor. 

Bella  gathered  up  the  broken  pieces  and 
stood  with  them  in  her  hand.  Gale  was  fin 
ishing  his  last  mouthfuls  with  an  air  of  stolid 
approval  of  all  his  father's  words.  Mary  had 
risen,  and  was  going  about  the  kitchen  grum 
bling  sotto  voce  concerning  the  destruction  of 
her  crockery  and  the  tempers  of  men. 

"  Now  then,  Bella,  what  are  the  words  you'll 
be  givin'  me?  " 

"  I'm  not  knowin'." 

"Well  then,  I'm  knowin' ;  knowin'  them  all, 
and  should  be.  Of  coorse,  you'll  be  done  with 
the  captain,  him  and  his ;  a  proud  lot,  be  off 
with  them  !  Bone  to  bone,  and  flesh  to  flesh, 
and  stand  by  your  own  people.  Isn'  Lace 
Corrin  lovin'  you  as  if  you  were  the  one,  just 
the  one  woman,  and  no  other?  And  sayin' 
so,  and  axin'  me  about  you,  for  honest  love  is 
like  a  little  child,  'you  loves  me  and  I  loves 


DRIFTING.  165 

you,'  and  no  hidin'  in  the  Glen  and  among  the 
rocks.  Do  it  again,  do  it  once  again  with 
that  Anglishman,  and  I'll !  "  He  lifted  his 
hand  and  brought  it  down  this  time  at  the 
expense  of  a  plate  and  a  cup.  Then  he  mo 
tioned  to  Gale  to  rise,  and  taking  his  cap  and 
stick  prepared  to  leave  the  cottage. 

Bella  flung  the  bits  of  broken  crockery 
which  were  in  her  hands  upon  the  floor,  and 
touched  her  father  on  the  arm  : 

"Father?" 

'•'  Talkin'  back,  is  it  ?  Aw,  scandalous  !  Go 
to  your  work." 

"  I  want  to  say  a  word." 

"  Idikkilis !  I'm  wanting  no  words.  Do 
what  I  tell  you,  or  it  will  be  the  worse  for — 
him." 

"A  good  deal  the  worse  for  him,"  added 
Gale  with  a  significant  look  at  his  sister,  and 
muttering  to  themselves  the  two  men  left  the 
cottage  together. 

Bella  turned  to  her  mother,  for  she  was 
burning  with  a  sense  of  angry  injustice,  and 
quite  as  ready  to  express  it  as  her  father  or 
brother. 

"  Mother,  I'm  wonderin'  at  you  not  spakin* 


1 66  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

for  me  when  I  wasn'  let  spake  for  myself  ; 
'  wantin'  no  words,'  my  father  said,  and  '  do 
what  I  tell  you/  and  the  threat  for  all,  '  or  it 
will  be  the  worse  for  him.'  ' 

"  Aw,  then,  I  wish  it  was  in  Anglan'  he'd 
kept  himself!  Nothin'  but  worry  with  him, 
look  at  the  good  crockery  broke  to  his  name 
this  mornin',  and  your  father  and  Gale  away 
with  the  thunder-cloud  in  their  hearts,  and  like 
to  burst  any  time,  and  then  trouble  thallure 
for  every  one  !  " 

"  They're  tryin'  to  frecken  me  !  Folly ! 
There's  no  fear  in  my  heart." 

"  Of  coorse  not ;  and  the  fear  in  your 
father's  heart  nothin*  to  you.  You're  not  to 
be  freckened  !  Chut !  When  the  men  speak 
out  you  know  what  it  will  be,  every  word  hot 
from  your  father's  lips  and  the  blow  with  it, 
and  as  for  Gale,  not  many  words  to  say,  but 
saying  them  hearty." 

"  You  are  hard  to  know,  mother.  One  day 
likin  the  captain  and  axin'  him  in,  and  bringin' 
the  cup  of  milk  for  him,  and  the  next  it's 
much  if  you'll  pass  the  time  of  day  with  him." 

"  Bless  my  soul,  easy  to  know  !  Easy  !  For- 
gettin'  myself  I  was  for  a  minute  or  two,  and 


DRIFTING.  167 

then  the  divil  had  his  chance,  and  when  so, 
spakin'  up  for  his  own  quick  and  ready.  For 
it's  a  waverin'  heart  I've  had  between  you  and 
your  father  ;  winkin'  at  your  meetin'  the  man 
on  Monday,  and  prayin'  God  to  forgive  the 
winkin'  on  Tuesday.  Then  when  you  was  up 
the  Glen  Wednesday,  purtendin'  to  think  you 
was  with  Jinny  Clague,  and  Thursday  frettin' 
the  heart  out  of  me  for  the  weakness  in  it. 
Friday  forgettin'a  minute  and  bewitched  again 
with  the  sweet  ways  of  the  man,  and  axin'  him 
to  the  very  hearthstone,  and  then  Saturday 
callin'  myself  hard  names  every  hour  of  the  day 
for  my  folly.  Sunday  itself  watchin'  him  and 
you  in  the  church,  when  I  should  be  readin' 
the  prayers,  God  forgive  me,  and  thus  and  so, 
till  I  wouldn'  say,  if  I  was  on  my  knees, 
whether  I  was  doin*  right  or  wrong.  But 
knowin'  for  all,  a  way  couldn'  be  a  right  way 
that  was  so  confusin',  for  the  right  road  is  a 
straight  one,  no  matter  how  hard  and  steep, 
and  no  fear  of  your  losin'  yourself  on  it." 

"  Threatenin',  allis  threatenin' !  Miss  Har 
riet  warnin'  me ;  let  her  take  her  warnin'  to 
herself  ;  and  father  warnin'  me,  and  Gale. 
What  for?  George  is  lovin*  me  and  sayin'  so, 


168  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

and  axin'  me  to  be  his   wife,  and  where's  the 
wrong?" 

"  Has  he  asked  your  father  for  you,  Bella !  " 

"  Father  wouldn'  listen  to  him.  I'm  knowin' 
directly  how  it  would  be, '  No,  sir,  and  niver  be 
spakin'  to  my  daughter  again.'  ' 

"  Aw  then,  why  will  you  be  wantin'  him  ? 
Not  like  you,  nor  ever  will  be.  The  differ  is 
from  the  start  and  can't  be  altered." 

"  There's  no  differ,  mother.  Love  aequals 
all." 

"  Folly,  talk  for  nothin' !  Put  your  cloak 
and  bonnet  on,  and  carry  Mona  the  stockin's 
I've  been  knittin'  for  the  children  ;  the  sea 
breeze  will  be  calmin'  you,  and  takin'  the  trem 
ble  out  of  your  heart." 

"You're  not  thinkin',  mother.  I  might  be 
meetin'  him.  He  knew  I  was  goin'  to  Mona's 
to-day." 

"  Aw  then,  say  the  last  words,  and  tell  him 
to  lay  off  Gale  and  your  father,  Gale  specially. 
Ax  him  to  go  away,  to  go  to  Anglan'  till  your 
both  forgettin'.  If  you  don't  there  will  be 
more  sorrow  than  a  few  sweet  words  can  cure." 

"Threats  again,  I'm  not  mindin' them  out 
of  every  mouth,  and  you  are  spakin'  as  easy 


DRIFTING.  169 

as  if  you  were  sayin',  '  Tell  Mona  there  is  but 
ter  thallure  in  the  house  and  send  no  more.' 
You  speak  like  love  was  nothin'  but  sweet 
words,  and  forgettin'  easy  to  do  as  sleepin'. 
It's  very  hard  on  me,  mother." 

"  Bella,  ma  chree,  the  same  for  me.  Them's 
common  words.  One  way  or  another,  all 
women  are  sayin'  them.  Men  have  the  brunt 
of  life,  and  we  have  its  heartache.  That's 
God's  will,  and  you  won't  be  contendin'  with 
it  surely  !  " 

Bella  did  not  answer,  but  the  contendin' 
was  in  her  face  and  in  her  every  action.  She 
was  rebelling  against  the  apparent  injustice  of 
the  situation,  and  the  rebellion  gave  a  kind 
of  majesty  to  her  person.  She  snapped  the 
latches  of  her  shoes,  and  flung  her  blue  cloak 
over  her  shoulders  with  an  impetuous  authority. 
A  man  dressing  for  a  duel  might  have  shown 
the  same  indignant  haste.  Her  cheeks  were 
flaming,  her  eyes  flashing,  the  heavy  coil  of  her 
bright  hair  seemed  alive  with  the  same  spirit. 
It  would  not  be  restrained.  The  pins  tumbled 
out  and  the  rippling  mass  fell  to  her  waist, 
each  individual  hair  alive  with  an  impetuous 
sympathy. 


17°  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

She  walked  with  a  speed  which  soon  brought 
her  to  her  sister-in-law's  cottage.  There  she 
was  compelled  in  some  measure  to  control 
her  feelings.  She  was  not  inclined  to  make  a 
confidant  of  Mona,  she  thought  it  sufficient  to 
say  "  there  had  been  words  with  father,"  and 
Ruthie's  temper  was  an  admitted  household 
defect.  His  women-folk  were  not  expected 
to  make  more  complaint  of  it  than  they  would 
have  made  of  a  wind  that  blew  the  smoke 
down  the  chimney.  After  a  short  rest  she 
took  the  elder  children  to  the  beach.  While 
they  were  playing  and  catching  crabs,  she  in 
tended  to  consider  her  position,  and  decide 
upon  her  future  relationship  with  her  lover. 

Mona's  cottage  was  in  a  rocky  inlet,  and 
there  was  no  other  near  it.  Bella  was  grateful 
for  its  loneliness  and  for  the  long,  solemn  mur 
mur  of  the  breaking  waves.  There  was  a  cer 
tain  harmony  between  their  restless  roll  and 
the  restless  beating  of  her  heart.  Their  move 
ments  seemed  analogous.  She  felt  that  the 
tide  was  not  the  only  pulsation  of  the  mighty 
sea.  The  shouting  children  were  as  much  out 
side  her  trouble  as  were  the  long  files  of  sea 
gulls,  fluttering  above  the  waters,  and  cawing 


DRIFTING.  171 

about  their  own  perplexities.  The  air  had  the 
first  chill  of  the  winter  in  it,  but  Bella  was 
glad  of  its  freshness  and  strength.  She  took 
off  her  bonnet  and  let  it  blow  through  her 
loosened  hair,  and  fill  her  with  its  own  cheerful 
vitality. 

Far  off  in  the  sapphire  streak  beyond  the 
verge  of  the  gray  coast  headlands,  she  saw  the 
skiff  of  her  lover.  He  was  waiting  for  her 
signal,  but  she  was  not  ready  to  give  it.  For 
very,  very  low  down  in  her  heart,  there  was  a 
voice  she  had  constantly  silenced.  She  was 
going  now  to  let  it  speak,  to  listen  to  all  that 
it  had  to  say.  It  was  a  mournful  thing  that 
interview  with  her  slighted  conscience.  And 
how  it  accused  her !  The  reproofs  of  her 
father  and  mother  had  only  been  a  fret,  com 
pared  with  its  stern  truths. 

"  You  know  that  there  has  been  a  reservation 
in  all  your  lover's  promises." 

"  You  know  that  when  asked  to  speak  to 
your  father  he  has  always  made  an  excuse." 

"  You  know  he  has  not  deceived  you,  so 
much  as  you  have  willingly  deceived  your 
self." 

"You  know  that  he  has  not  treated  you  pre- 


172  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

cisely  as  he  would  have  treated  a  lady  in  his 
own  rank." 

"  You  know  that  there  is  no  excuse  for  the 
difference.  If  he  means  ever  to  make  you  his 
wife,  it  is  as  easy  to  tell  the  world  so  to-day  as 
it  will  be  a  year  hence." 

To  these  and  many  other  truths  she  permit 
ted  a  long-delayed  audience.  Little  slights, 
thoughtless  words,  thoughtless  silences,  small 
sympathies  looked  for  and  not  received,  lapses 
of  love's  duty  that  seemed  to  be  mere  nega 
tions,  which  she  would  not  have  liked  to  have 
put  into  words ;  she  now  compelled  herself  to 
examine,  to  listen  to  her  heart's  complaint  of 
them.  She  knew  then  that  she  was  more 
deeply  wounded  than  she  had  understood. 
She  was  ashamed  for  the  words  she  had  not 
spoken,  she  felt  that  she  had  been  guilty  of 
tolerations  which  in  that  hour  sorely  wounded 
her  self-respect. 

And  when  a  woman  can  honestly  bring  in 
such  a  bill  of  offences,  it  behooves  her  to  make 
her  lover  walk  in  the  sight  of  the  world,  and 
fulfil  to  the  letter  the  world's  demands.  If  he 
still  prefer  a  byway  to  a  highway,  then  she 
should  leave  him  to  pursue  it  alone,  for  the 


DRIFTING.  173 

end  thereof  is  in  the  house  of  sorrow,  or  per 
haps  in  the  still  darker  homes  of  sin,  and 
shame,  and  death. 

Bella  blinked  none  of  these  conclusions.  She 
was  not  afraid  of  being  too  hard  with  George, 
her  heart  swayed  her  quite  sufficiently  in  his 
favor.  But  it  is  rarely  people  can  come  to  a 
wise  decision  until  the  moment  for  it  arrives. 
Bella  felt  that  it  was  not  alone,  but  at  the  side 
of  her  lover,  that  all  her  permanent  resolutions 
must  be  made  ;  and  she  sent  the  children  home 
and  then  answered  his  signal. 

In  twenty  minutes  she  was  at  a  rocky  pro 
jection  which  made  a  natural  pier  and  allowed 
her  to  step  into  the  boat.  "  You  have  kept  me 
waiting  a  long  time,  Bella,"  he  said  fretfully. 
Then  he  gave  her  his  hand  with  that  calm  con 
fidence  which  is  the  marital  privilege,  and 
which  it  is  an  assurance  for  a  lover  to  feel. 
And  she  remembered  that  he  had  once  loved 
to  lift  her  across  the  narrow  rift. 

Then  suddenly  there  came  into  her  mind  a 
determination  to  be  happy  for  at  least  two 
hours.  "And  the  end  of  it,  the  end  of  it?" 
She  put  the  question  angrily  down.  "  In  two 
hours  I'll  tell  the  end  of  it.  Two  hours  isn't 


174  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

much  to  be  owin'  fate,  and  I'll  be  riskin'  it 
anyway."  For  in  the  girl's  heart  there  was  an 
unacknowledged  doubt,  a  fear  of  her  lover. 
She  was  taking  the  two  hours  to  strengthen 
her  influence  over  him,  before  she  put  it  to  the 
test. 

As  she  made  the  determination  her  face 
cleared,  it  broke  up  into  smiles  and  sunshine, 
it  became  luminous  with  the  light  of  love  be 
hind  it.  George  instantly  answered  its  reflec 
tion.  He  had  an  almost  childish  capacity  for 
taking  the  pleasure  of  the  moment.  He 
thought  it  the  greatest  folly  to  spoil  the  hap 
piness  of  what  is,  with  the  thought  of  what 
may  be. 

The  little  boat  drifted  on  a  smooth  sea  under 
Scarlett.  In  the  great,  gray  clouds  of  the 
Stack,  speckled  clouds  of  gulls  were  resting. 
On  the  horizon  a  twenty-ton  cutter  was  lazily 
lifted  by  the  heaving  sweep  that  broke  on  the 
buttresses  of  the  Calf  of  Man.  There  was  not 
a  sound  but  the  ripple  around  the  boat,  the 
distant  booming  of  the  muffled  sea,  or  the 
warning  cry  of  some  motherly  guillemot. 

They  drifted  close  in  to  the  land.  The 
water  was  clear  to  the  bottom.  Lovely  bits 


DRIFTING.  175 

of  seaweed  pushed  their  fronds  to  the  surface, 
and  Bella  let  her  hand  drop  and  ripple  the 
water  around  them.  The  sea  was  ringed  with 
azure,  the  land  veiled  in  a  purplish  haze  show 
ing  through  it  the  dark  masses  of  South  Bar- 
rule,  and  the  limestone  cliffs  of  Castletown 
shore.  All  the  enchantments  of  the  North  were 
over  the  island,  and  the  pensive  charm  of 
autumn,  its  subdued  lights  and  adorable  air  of 
mystery  and  silence. 

The  impetuous  and  angry  mood  which  had 
dominated  Bella  when  she  left  home  had  ex 
pressed  itself  in  the  careless  independence  of 
her  dress.  She  had  made  a  pretty  garment 
for  this  very  day,  but  she  scorned  to  wear  it. 
However,  the  most  refined  taste  has  discovered 
since  Bella  proudly  wore  her  blue  flannel  dress, 
that  it  is  one  of  beauty's  most  becoming  cos 
tumes.  George  Pennington  had  already  dis 
covered  its  possibilities.  He  knew  that  it 
formed  a  telling  background  for  the  milk  and 
roses  of  her  fair  skin,  that  it  matched  the  blue, 
wandering  veins,  and  contrasted  as  nothing  else 
could  the  glory  of  her  red-brown  hair.  He 
thought  also  that  the  large  blue  flannel  cloak 
wrapped  her  noble  figure  like  a  royal  mantle. 


176  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

But  he  threw  its  hood  backward.  He  liked 
to  see  the  wind  blowing  in  her  hair  and  the 
sunshine  turning  it  into  strands  of  gold.  It 
was  yet  instinct  with  contradiction  and  in 
clined  to  the  most  picturesque  disorder.  Never 
had  Bella  looked  so  altogether  lovely  and  de 
sirable.  He  spoke  to  her  in  those  low,  pas 
sionate  tones  which  convince  women  in  defi 
ance  of  their  will  and  their  judgment.  He 
gave  to  the  sweet  platitudes  and  trivialities  of 
love  infinite  freshness  and  interest.  For, one 
hour  at  least,  the  blown,  wet  face  of  the  sea 
caught  the  reflection  of  two  faces  perfectly 
beautiful  and  perfectly  happy. 

The  delightful  dream  was  broken  by  a  voice 
as  imperative  as  that  of  love,  the  voice  of 
hunger.  Then  George  lifted  a  basket  and 
placed  it  between  them,  and  they  ate  from  its 
dainties  with  the  freedom  and  keen  enjoy 
ment  of  two  children. 

"  Oh,  the  sea,  the  sea  !  "  cried  George,  as 
he  sat  smoking  afterwards ;  smoking,  and 
holding  Bella's  right  hand  in  his  left.  "  Oh, 
the  sea,  and  the  pulse  of  its  tide,  and  its 
quiver  and  beat,  and  the  freshness  of  its 
wind,  and  the  salt  of  its  foam  on  the  lips  ! 


DRIFTING.  177 

Bella,  the  great  mother  of  the  world  is  the 
sea  !  " 

"Aw,  then,  a  cruel  mother;  fed  with  the 
lives  of  the  good  men  doin'  their  daily  duty  ; 
pleasant  at  times  like  the  now,  but  allis 
slantin'  off  into  storm  and  trouble.  If  the 
wind  would  rise  a  trifle,  and  come  down  as  it 
can  from  the  north,  you'd  find  it  very 
bewild'rin',  near  as  we  are  to  the  land." 

"  Chut !  It  would  only  need  a  shoulder  and 
wrist  and  hand.  I  like  a  taste  of  fierce,  fresh 
weather,  when  the  gunwale  dips  and  rakes, 
Bella,  and  the  pennant  flies  straight,  and  the 
rain  is  in  the  face,  and  the  face  in  the  teeth  of 
the  wind." 

"  You  didn'  know  what  you  was  afther  when 
you  made  yourself  a  soldier.  It  is  the  sea  you 
should  be  on.  The  fond  you  are  of  it,  amaz 
ing,  the  fond.  My  father  and  Gale  are  fishers, 
but  not  lovin'  the  sea  as  you  do." 

"  They  do  not  even  think  of  it  as  I  think  of 
it.  What  it  may  do  to  them,  and  how  they 
may  get  even  with  it ;  what  they  can  make 
out  of  it,  and  how  sails  and  ropes  may  baffle 
its  anger,  or  make  it  serve  their  ends ;  they 
know  all  that.  But  they  would  not  go  to  sea 


1 78  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

for  pleasure.  They  would  not  care  to  drift 
idly  about  with  wind  or  tide  as  we  are  doing; 
drifting,  drifting,  drifting,  with  no  object  but 
to  be  alone  and  happy." 

One  word  startled  her,  "  drifting." 
"  Driftin',  driftin',  and  God  knows  where  !" 
she  muttered.     "  Slow  or  fast,  the  end  must 
come,  and  has  come,  God  help  me  !  " 
"  What  are  you  talking  about,  Bella?  " 
Then  she  told  him  all  that  her  father  and 
mother  had  said,  and  she  warned  him  of  their 
anger,    "  Not   wantin'    trouble    for  any   one," 
she   added   sadly,   "  and  father  and  Gale  are 
danger's.      Father  may  talk  his  anger  down, 
but  Gale's  quiet,  and  it's  the  still   men   that 
use  the  knives  they  carry." 

George  listened  with  all  his  mind.  He  was 
thinking  rapidly  while  Bella  was  speaking,  and 
he  was  in  earnest,  for  all  his  senses  were  very 
much  so.  He  must  give  her  up  or  take  her 
entirely  to  himself.  It  had  come  to  that 
point,  for  he  saw  plainly  that  she  would  not 
again  disobey  the  positive  command  given  her. 
For  Bella's  fears  as  well  as  her  conscience  were 
aroused.  Whatever  her  father  might  do,  Gale 
made  no  idle  threats.  Any  meeting  now 


DRIFTING.  179 

would  be  shadowed  by  fear,  and  very  likely 
followed  by  tragedy. 

This,  then,  was  to  be  either  the  end  of  their 
love  or  its  beginning  under  fresh  circum 
stances.  A  crisis  had  come  which  George  had 
often  contemplated.  He  was  now  to  test  the 
strength  of  his  influence  over  Bella  ;  to  find 
out  how  far  her  love  for  him  would  carry  her. 
He  was  going  to  make  an  unrestrained  and 
unrecoverable  claim  upon  it,  and  he  looked  at 
her  with  an  uneasy  scrutiny:  "Would  she 
meet  it  ?  " 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  HEART  OF  BELLA  CLUCAS. 

"  I  can  forgive  a  foe 
But  not  a  lover  and  a  friend. 
Treason  is  there  in  its  most  horrid  shape 
Where  trust  is  greatest ;  and  the  soul  resigned 
Is  stabbed  by  her  own  guards." 

"  Where  when  the  gods  would  be  cruel 

Do  they  go  for  a  torture  ?  where 
Plant  thorns  ?  set  pain  like  a  jewel ! 
Ah,  not  in  the  flesh  !  not  there. 

The  racks  of  earth  and  the  rods, 

Are  weak  as  foam  on  the  sands ; 
In  the  heart  is  the  prey  of  the  gods, 

Who  crucify  hearts,  not  hands." 

BELLA'S  narrative  had  been  delayed   by 
questions  and  remarks  longer  than  either 
dreamed    of.      When     she     ceased     speaking 
George  saw  by  the  light  on  the  water  that  the 
afternoon  was  advancing.     His  eyes  were  full 
of  speculation,  but  not  so  full  but  that  he  per 
ceived    a    suspicious-looking    little    yacht    in 
their  wake.     Bella  saw  it  at  the  same  moment, 
180 


THE  HEART  OF  BELLA    CLUCAS.         I«I 

"  Look  to  the  aesthard,"  she  said  :  "  are  you 
knowin'  the  boat  ?  " 

"  It  is  DinwoodtVs,  I  feel  sure."  Then  in 
obedience  to  that  instinct  which  makes  us  talk 
of  trivial  and  irrelevant  things  when  the  mind 
is  burdened  with  some  weighty  or  sorrowful 
subject,  he  added :  "  He  says  he  carried  that 
yacht  in  his  head  for  twenty  years.  It  would 
have  been  a  mercy  if  he  had  kept  her  there." 

"  Will  she  pass  us  ?    She  can  if  she  wishes." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  that.  There  is  the  little 
inlet  around  that  point  and  the  pretty  bit  of 
sand,  or  the  gorge  for  a  walk.  We  can  reach 
it  in  ten  minutes,  and  we  can  talk  better  there 
than  at  sea.  I  have  something  very  serious  to 
say  to  you,  Bella." 

"At  sea  one  is  out  of  sight  and  hearin', 
and  the  yacht  may  know  the  inlet ;  she  looks 
as  if  she  did." 

"  Perhaps  she  does,  but  Dinwoodie  hates 
what  he  calls  going  into  holes ;  Castletown 
Bay  is  too  small  for  his  cockle-shell,  his  idea 
of  an  anchorage  for  it  is  Leith  Roads,  or  the 
basin  of  the  Mersey.  He  wouldn't  dream  of 
Vorg  inlet." 

They  had  been  sittkig  face  to  face,  George 


FEET  OF  CLAY. 

resting  npon  his  oars,  letting  the  boat  rise  and 
fall  to  the  gentle  set  of  the  outgoing  tide. 
But  Bella  now  took  the  tiller,  and  George  sent 
the  little  craft  spinning  through  the  smooth 
water  at  a  speed  which  brought  them  quickly 
to  the  Vorg  inlet.  And  as  it  had  been  used 
by  smugglers  there  were  several  conveniences 
there  for  fastening  boats.  Like  the  majority 
of  such  little  bays,  it  not  only  spread  out  in  a 
pretty  expanse  of  land-locked  sand,  it  also 
wound  inland  by  many  a  turn,  so  devious  that 
every  tiny  level  seemed  to  be  the  end  of  it, 
until  some  half-hidden  footpath  was  discov 
ered,  which  led  around  the  rocks  or  through 
the  gorse  to  another  secluded  reach. 

It  seemed  to  George  that  no  place  on  earth 
could  be  more  suitable  for  putting  the  ques 
tion  to  Bella  which  he  was  now  determined  to 
risk.  He  gave  her  his  hand  and  led  her  with 
many  a  sweet  or  merry  word,  and  many  a  lov 
ing  glance,  to  the  second  reach.  Here  they 
could  not  even  see  the  ocean. 

They  were  in  a  rocky  cup  the  sides  of  which 
were  lovely  with  ferns  and  bluebells  and  Our 
Lady's  fingers.  There  was  the  scent  of  rose 
mary  in  it,  and  the  delicate  fragrance  of  dying 


THE  HEART  OF  BELLA    CLUCAS.         183 

herbs.  The  turf  was  soft  to  their  feet,  the 
ocean  murmur  haunted  the  silent  place  like  a 
spirit  voice. 

The  road  to  it  was  a  little  steep  and  the  day 
warm  for  the  season,  so  Bella  had  taken  off 
her  cloak.  George  looked  at  the  flush  in  her 
face,  the  light  in  her  blue  eyes,  the  radiance 
that  seemed  to  emanate  from  her  bright  hair, 
and  felt  the  enthralment  of  her  physical 
beauty  as  he  had  never  done  before.  But  this 
was  not  all  her  charm  ;  she  complemented  his 
nature  fully  in  other  respects.  For,  though 
George  was  clever,  it  was  merely  acquired 
cleverness.  He  had  bought  his  knowledge  as 
he  had  bought  his  clothes ;  mentally  he  had 
less  originality  than  Bella.  And  though  he 
did  not  recognize  or  acknowledge  the  fact, 
Bella's  strength  of  will,  and  the  noble  key  to 
which  her  whole  life  was  set,  filled  him  with 
that  vague  admiration  which  the  weak  always 
feel  for  the  strong. 

There  was  a  moss-covered  stone  in  the  bot 
tom  of  the  cup,  and  they  sat  down  upon  it. 
"  Do  you  know  that  we  are  really  in  fairy 
land?"  asked  Bella  a  little  solemnly.  "Danny 
Fell  and  his  sister  Onca  saw  the  'little  people' 


1 84  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

here  no  further  gone  than  last  March.  The 
children,  God  bless  them,  were  comin'  for 
the  first  violets,  and  delayed,  they  were  playin' 
a  bit,  and  huntin'  the  flowers  a  bit,  and  so  on 
till  the  twilight.  And  up  there  among  the 
alders  Onca  came  upon  a  washin'  of  fairy  linen 
spread  out  to  dry !  It's  thrue  I'm  tellin',  and 
saw  two  little  people  turnin*  the  things  that 
were  no  bigger  than  doll  clothes,  and  finer 
than  spider-webs  for  all." 

So  far  George  had  suffered  her  to  proceed 
without  remark.  He  was  dreaming  his  own 
fairy  tale  and  wondering  how  to  tell  it  best. 
But  he  soon  grew  impatient. 

"  Nonsense !  "  he  interrupted.  "  There  are 
no  fairies." 

"  The  innercent  children  were  sayin'  so,  and 
I  was  seein'  them  myself  when  I  was  a  little 
one,  not  now,  of  coorse !  Eyes  that  have 
looked  on  sin  and  sorrow  grow  dim.  It's  none 
but  the  pure  in  heart  can  be  seein'  '  the  good 
little  people." 

"  Bella,  there  is  a  world  fairer  than  fairy 
world,  full  of  splendors  and  pleasures  you 
have  never  dreamt  of.  I  spoke  to  you  once  or 
twice  about  India — " 


THE  HEART  OF  BELLA    CLUCAS.         185 

"  I  wasn'  regardin'  much,  knowin'  it  far 
away,  but  a  dream  like !  The  gold  and  the 
jewels,  and  the  grand  ould  cities,  and  allis  sun 
shine  and  flowers  and  fine  scents !  And  the 
house  we  were  to  have  in  the  shady  garden, 
and  the  fine  dressin',  and  all  a  pufHc  fairy 
life,  but  never  for  the  like  of  me." 

He  took  his  text  from  her  disclaimer,  and 
insisted  upon  the  reality  of  the  prospect.  He 
was  vitally  interested  on  this  subject,  and  he 
spoke  with  the  passionate  eloquence  of  a  lover 
whose  hopes  and  aims,  and  feelings  and  intel 
lect,  have  all  set  themselves  to  the  accomplish 
ment  of  one  end.  Into  the  cool  freshness  of 
that  green  glen  he  brought  the  sensuous,  lan 
guorous  atmosphere  of  Indian  spice  gardens, 
the  splendors  of  Indian  courts,  the  excite 
ment  of  Indian  garrison  life,  the  enchant 
ments  of  a  flower-hid  home  into  which  only 
the  fondest  love  was  to  enter. 

Bella's  interest  gradually  kindled  until  it 
answered  his  own.  Her  sympathy  made  him 
really  eloquent.  She  was  at  last  as  enthusi 
astic  as  he  could  desire,  and  when  he  said,  "  It 
is  high  time,  Bella,  that  we  were  getting  ready 
for  our  journey/'  she  looked  at  him  with  a  face 


1 86  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

in  which  there  was  nothing  left  of  doubt  or 
regret. 

"  We  must  go  first  to  London.  There  are 
people  in  London  whose  business  it  is  to  fur 
nish  precisely  the  kind  of  clothing  requisite 
for  the  Indian  climate.  They  will  make  you 
the  most  exquisite  linen  and  gowns,  white 
gowns,  Bella,  fine  and  flimsy  as  the  fairy  linen 
which  Dan  and  Onca  saw,  white,  with  bows 
of  pale  pink  and  blue  satin  ribbons.  You  will 
have  lovely  laces,  and  gypsy  bonnets  trimmed 
with  violets,  and  hosiery  of  Lisle  open-work, 
and  shoes  with  soles  as  thin  as  your  finger 
nail.  And  how  beautiful  on  your  round  milk- 
white  throat  will  be  the  gold  chain  I  shall  buy 
you,  and  the  bracelets  for  your  arms,  and  the 
rings  for  your  fingers,  sapphire  rings  to  match 
your  eyes,  ruby  rings  to  match  your  lips,  pearl 
rings  to  match  your  firm  white  teeth.  I  think, 
indeed,  when  I  see  you  dressed  as  you  ought 
to  be  dressed,  I  shall  fall  down  and  worship 
you.  Oh,  Bella,  my  girl  of  gold,  my  treasure 
of  maidens,  what  a  life  of  joy  we  shall  lead ! ' 

Bella  did  not  conceal  her  delight.  "  I  have 
wanted  beautiful  things,"  she  said,  "wanted 
to  look  lovely  for  your  sake." 


THE  HEART  OF  BELLA    CLUCAS.          187 

"  It  is  Thursday  afternoon ;  the  boat  sails 
from  Douglas  to  Liverpool  on  Saturday. 
Bella,  it  will  be  easy  for  you  to  make  a  little 
trouble  at  home  to-night,  and  then  in  conse 
quence  of  it  go  to  Douglas  to-morrow.  Leave 
a  note  saying  you  intend  to  stay  with  your 
aunt  a  week  ;  till  the  trouble  gets  over.  I  will 
take  care  your  father  and  mother  see  me  late 
on  Friday,  and  then  after  midnight  I  will  ride 
into  Douglas  and  be  on  the  Liverpool  boat  to 
meet  you  when  you  come  on  board.  Here  is 
my  purse,  darling,  you  know  you  must  have 
money,  and  all  that  I  have  is  yours." 

It  was  a  purse  of  silk,  and  the  sovereigns 
glinted  through  it  as  he  put  it  in  her  hand. 
She  let  it  fall  through  her  fingers  as  if  it 
burned  them,  and  it  lay  on  the  sod  at  their 
feet. 

"  You  must  have  money,  Bella  ;  my  money 
is  yours,  and  you  will  take  it,  dear?  " 

"  The  need  ?  My  father  will  be  givin'  me 
money  if  I  want  it,  till  I  am  your  wife." 

"  But  your  father  will  not  let  me  marry  you 
if  he  knows  it." 

"Be  axin'  him  plain  out.  Tell  him  about 
India,  and  the  way  you  are  wantin'  me  to  go. 


1 88  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

The  right  it  is,  and  the  raysonable,  and  what 
every  father's  expectin',  of  coorse  ! " 

"Bella,  this  is  one  thing  you  must  trust  in 
me ;  can't  you  trust  me,  darling?  I  happen  to 
know  that  your  father  and  Gale  have  both 
vowed  that  you  shall  not  marry  me.V 

"Aw  then,  who  was  tellin'  you?  Ask  my 
father,  it  is  your  putting  him  by  that  is 
angerin'  him.  That  was  the  word  he  was 
throwin'  in  my  face  allis,  that  you  were  feared 
to  ask  him." 

"  Nothing  will  come  of  asking  him  but 
trouble.  We  must  get  married,  and  then  he 
will  forgive  us." 

"A  girl  is  likin'  to  be  marriet  among  her 
people." 

"But  think,  Bella,  what  trouble  we  may  pre 
vent.  Your  father  and  Gale  will  be  setting 
every  fisher  on  his  head.  You  will  have  no 
peace  night  or  day.  Harriet  and  mother  will 
be  equally  as  unreasonable.  Harriet  will  be 
down  at  the  cottage  to  scold  you — " 

"Aw  then,  I  needn'  lizzen  to  her." 

"  And  mother  will  send  for  you  to  the  House, 
and  cry  and  plead." 

"  I  needn'  go  to  the  House." 


THE  HEART  OF  BELLA    CLUCAS.          189 

"  And  between  you  and  them  all,  what  a 
time  I  shall  have  !  Now  if  we  go  away  quietly, 
when  the  thing  is  done  it  is  done,  and  what 
can  they  say  about  it  ?  " 

"  You  mean  when  we  are  married  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Then  when  and  where  shall  we  be  mar 
ried  ?  "  She  looked  into  his  eyes  as  she  asked 
the  question,  and  George  was  troubled  by  the 
clear,  straight  look. 

"  Well,  it  depends." 

"  What  time  does  the  boat  sail  from 
Douglas?" 

"At  ten  o'clock." 

"Then  we  could  be  married  at  Douglas?" 

"  No,  that  would  be  impossible.  As  we 
have  not  been  called  in  church  for  three  Sun 
days,  we  must  have  a  license  from  the  Bishop 
or  the  Governor." 

"You  were  sayin'  the  Governor  was  your 
friend,  ask  him  for  a  license." 

"  The  very  worst  person  to  ask  ;  he  would 
go  at  once  to  my  mother." 

She  was  watching  him  with-  an  almost 
startling  scrutiny;  but  he  was  gazing  in 
tently  on  the  ground  as  if  deeply  .exercised 


190  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

with  the  possibilities  and  difficulties  of  the 
situation. 

"  In  Liverpool,  how  can  you  manage  any 
better?" 

"  We  shall  be  in  the  same  predicament  there. 
In  fact  we  cannot  safely  remain  in  Liverpool. 
Your  father  and  Gale  are  almost  certain  to 
follow  us  there.  Until  we  reach  London  we 
cannot  rest.  There  we  shall  be  perfectly  safe." 

"  The  far  will  be  nothin'  to  Gale  if  he  is  in- 
tarmined  to  find  us.  And  what  will  I  do  in 
London  without  my  mother  or  my  kin  to 
shalter  me?  People  would  be  thinkin'  ill  of 
me,  and  I  deservin'  it.  The  questions  they'd 
ask  and  the  way  they'd  look !  Oh,  I'm  know- 
in'  it  all." 

"  But  I  should  be  with  you,  Bella.  Do  you 
think  I  should  leave  you  for  a  moment?  I 
'know  exactly  where  to  take  you,  a  quiet  old 
house  looking  into  gardens,  and  a  nice  old 
lady  who  will  be  as  respectful  to  you  as  if  you 
were  the  queen  herself.  I  shall  tell  her  that 
you  are  my  wife,  as  indeed  you  are  in  the  sight 
of  God,  and- as  for  the  form  of  the  thing,  we 
will  have  that  attended  to  as  soon  and  as 
quietly  as  possible." 


THE  HEART  OF  BELLA  CLUCAS.    19' 

As  he  spoke  she  withdrew  her  hand  from 
his,  but  he  did  not  notice  the  action.  He  was 
still  looking  intently  upon  the  turf,  or  perhaps 
at  the  purse  lying  upon  it,  and  which  he  did 
not  lift  because  he  still  hoped  that  Bella  would 
need  and  accept  it.  This  acceptance  of  his 
money  would  mean  her  submission  to  his  will ; 
it  was  good  policy,  therefore,  to  give  the  sig 
nificant  symbol  as  little  importance  as  pos 
sible. 

He  felt  that  he  was  in  a  position  where  a 
word  too  far,  an  action  too  precipitate,  would 
be  fatal  to  his  desires.  He  knew  Bella's  quick 
temper  and  its  ready  modes  of  expression  ;  he 
was  therefore  pleased  and  surprised  at  her 
calm  and  reasonable  discussion  of  his  propo 
sal.  The  withdrawal  of  her  hand  meant  noth 
ing  to  him.  He  was  so  occupied  with  noting 
every  inflection  of  her  voice,  that  this  expres 
sive  gesture  escaped  his  notice. 

But  he  was  conscious  of  a  change  when  she 
spoke  next : 

"Are  you  manin'  that  I  would  be  takin' 
your  name,  before  God  and  man  gave  it  to 
me?  " 

"  I  give  it  to  you,  Bella." 


192  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

"  That's  beyand  your  power.  I'll  be  kapin' 
my  own  name,  of  coorse,  till  I've  the  right  to 
yours." 

"  But  listen,  Bella.  I  can  only  take  you  to 
my  home  in  London  as  my  wife.  To  be  with 
me  under  your  own  name  would  cause  scan 
dal,  and  I  must  preserve  my  wife  from  even  a 
suspicion  of  wrong." 

"  To  be  with  you,  and  me  not  marriet  to 
you.  Of  coorse  scandal,  and  couldn'  miss 
it,  and  didn'  ought  to." 

41  Bella,  don't  be  absurd,  a  girl  of  your  sense. 
You  are  my  wife  now,  God  and  I  have  heard 
your  promise.  A  few  words  and  a  ring,  how 
can  they  make  you  more  so  ?  " 

He  spoke  irritably.  He  was  really  angry  at 
Bella  making  objections  after  all  his  patience 
and  his  eloquence.  He  felt  as  if  in  some  way 
she  had  deceived  him.  And  ere  he  had  fin 
ished  speaking  he  became  aware  that  Bella 
also  was  angry. 

She  had  risen  from  his  side,  and  when  he 
lifted  his  eyes  to  her  he  saw  what  frightened 
him.  All  Bella's  blood  had  fled  to  her  heart, 
her  face  was  white  as  milk  and  stern  as  gran 
ite.  And  yet  her  angry  soul  imparted  to  it  a 


THE  HEART  OF  BELLA  CLVCAS.       193 

strangely  luminous  aspect.  She  stood  before 
him  in  a  white  cold  light,  just  as  he  had  often 
seen  her  in  one  of  tender  rose,  or  golden 
radiance. 

"  What  is  the  matter  now,  Bella  ?  " 

"  You  are  not  axin'  me  to  be  your  wife, 
George  Pennington,  and  I'm  just  findin'  you 
out,  sir." 

"  Upon  my  honor  !  " 

"  A  poor  oath.  The  name  of  the  Lord  on 
your  lips  is  lies  !  I'm  not  regardin'  it." 

"Bella!" 

"  My  name  is  soiled  if  you  speak  it.  Say  it 
no  more.  Do  not  touch  my  hand.  No,  I  will 
not  listen  to  you." 

"  Bella,  I  was  just  trying  you.  I'll  marry 
you  at  St.  Mary's,  in  Castletown,  before  all 
the  world.  Don't  go,  Bella." 

"  You  were  tryin'  me,  that  is,  you  were 
doubtin'  me.  If  I  was  wicked  as  Jezebel,  I 
am  too  good  for  you.  And  why  wouldn'  you 
marry  me  before  the  world?  What  God 
sees,  the  world  may  well  be  seein'.  But  I 
wouldn'  marry  you,  not  if  you  sought  me  till 
your  hair  was  gray.  The  insult  you've  put 
between  us !  It's  a  deep  gulf,  desperate 


194  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

deep !  You'll  never  cross  it,  never,  never, 
never!  " 

"  Oh  remember,  Bella,  what  we  have  been 
to  each  other  !  " 

"  I'll  remember  nothin*  but  them  last  words. 
Up  or  down,  young  or  old,  I'll  never  forget 
them." 

The  majesty  of  outraged  love  and  virtue 
gave  to  her  person,  her  voice,  her  unconscious 
dramatic  poise,  an  authority  not  to  be  de 
scribed.  She  was  positively  splendid.  From 
the  arch  of  her  scornful  eyes  she  sent  him  a 
look  which  he  was  not  able  to  endure.  He 
sat  cowering  on  the  rock  at  her  feet,  with  his 
head  in  his  hands.  But  he  could  not  let  her 
go  with  this  hopelessness  for  the  future  ring 
ing  in  his  ears.  He  forced  himself  to  confront 
the  angry  girl;  he  said  penitently: 

"Forgive  me,  Bella!  It  was  a  mistake,  a 
moment's  mistake." 

"  No,  no,  no  !  If  the  devil  had  took  you  on 
the  sudden,  unknownced  like,  mayve  I  might, 
the  Lord  knows  ;  but  it's  weeks  back  you've 
been  plannin'  and  plottin',  gradjal',  gradjal', 
climbin'  inch  by  inch  as  the  devil  bid  you  to 
the  sin  wanted.  Thinkin'  to  lift  me  off  my 


THE  HEART  OF  BELLA   CLUCAS.         195 

feet  with  your  fine  words  and  promises,  and 
then,  God  help  me,  I  was  to  trip  and  fall : 
fall  lower  than  yourself,  fall  to  the  bottomless 
pit.  My  father  was  tellin'  me  allis,  that  you 
were  a  villain  ;  you  are  worse  than  he  priced 
you  at.  The  wicked  you  are,  the  cruel,  the 
cowardly,  to  try  and  slay  a  girl's  honor  with 
her  love.  Aw,  scandalous  !  " 

She  lifted  her  cloak  and  turned  from  him, 
but  in  a  moment  her  steps  were  arrested. 
Colonel  Sutcliffe  and  Harriet  Pennington 
were  standing  a  few  yards  away,  Miss  Din- 
woodie  and  Lieutenant  Greyson  just  com 
ing  into  sight.  Others  were  doubtless  be 
hind.  Colonel  Sutcliffe  advanced  rapidly, 
saying  : 

"  Miss  Clucas,  George,  we  have  I  fear  in 
truded,  unintentionally,  however." 

"  Bella  !  You  here  !  Alone  with  Captain 
Pennington  !  I  am  astonished  at  you  !  " 

And  Miss  Pennington  looked  astonished, 
and  angry  also.  But  when  one  is  under  the 
surgeon's  knife  the  prick  of  a  pin  matters  little. 
Bella  was  hardly  aware  of  the  reproof,  and  she 
did  not  answer  it.  A  momentary  glance  at 
the  intruders,  a  glance  at  once  appealing  and 


196  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

defiant,  was  the  only  evidence  that  she  con 
sciously  acknowledged  their  presence. 

Lieutenant  Greyson  had  gone  back  to  the 
rest  of  the  party.  Kitty  and  Harriet  stood 
together  ;  Colonel  Sutcliffe  was  speaking  in  a 
low  voice  to  George.  Bella  felt  for  all  her  sur 
roundings  the  most  supreme  indifference.  She 
was  possessed  by  her  own  sorrowful  and  indig 
nant  spirit,  and  it  gave  her  the  privilege  of 
supremacy.  Such  trifles  as  class  distinctions 
or  the  opinion  of  the  smiling,  curious  crowd 
around  her  sank  far  below  the  tide  of  her  cal 
culation.  She  looked  beyond  George,  and  he 
did  not  look  at  her,  but  Colonel  Sutcliffe's 
kind  eyes  were  full  of  pity  for  the  beautiful  girl. 
He  even  forgot  her  beauty,  he  saw  only  that 
her  flesh  and  blood  was  for  the  moment  spirit 
ualized,  that  it  radiated  at  every  invisible  point 
an  atmosphere  of  anguish  and  indignation. 

She  did  not  hesitate  more  than  a  minute  as 
to  her  course,  but  the  uncomfortable  tension 
made  it  appear  more.  The  way  up  the  hill 
was  the  longer  way,  but  it  was  lonely  and  she 
resolved  to  take  it.  The  momentary  tempta 
tion  to  brave  the  slant  looks  and  low  laughter 
which  might  accompany  her  to  the  boat,  she 


THE  HEART  OF  BELLA    CLUCAS.         Ip7 

put  down  with  the  thought.  It  was  but  a 
spurious  bravery,  one  possible  to  the  lowest 
nature  ;  it  had  Bella's  contempt  as  soon  as  it 
presented  itself. 

Solitude,  solitude,  space  and  silence  to 
wring  her  hands  and  sob  aloud,  that  was  the 
imperious  cry  of  her  wounded  heart,  and  she 
listened  to  it.  With  rapid  steps  she  crossed 
the  small  inclosure  and  passed  behind  the  wall 
of  gorse  which  hid  the  upward  road.  In  her 
direct  path  lay  the  purse  of  sovereigns  which 
she  had  refused  to  hold  in  her  hands.  With  a 
conscious  indignation  she  put  her  foot  firmly 
upon  it,  and  even  at  the  moment  she  heard 
her  soul  whisper  sweetly,  "  How  much  better 
under  your  foot  than  in  your  hand  !  "  And 
she  walked  proudly  onward  to  the  comforting 
whisper;  it  was  like  the  stir  of  music  to  the 
marching  soldier. 

"Thank  heaven,  the  girl  is  gone  !  After  all 
we  have  done  for  her!  What  base  ingrati 
tude  !  What—" 

"  Be  quiet,  Harriet.  Bella  did  as  much  for 
mother  and  you,  as  you  did  for  her."  George 
spoke  with  a  dull  anger,  like  a  man  scarcely 
conscious  of  his  words. 


198  FEE T  OP  CLAY. 

At  this  moment  Miss  Dinwoodie  perceived 
the  purse,  and  she  offered  it  to  George.  "  I 
am  sure  it  is  yours,"  she  said  pleasantly.  "To 
lose  your  purse,  and  quarrel  with  your  sweet 
heart  in  the  same  hour,  is  a  trouble  too 
many.  Peeple  often  quarrel  with  their  sweet 
hearts  ;  it  always  ends  right.  You  have 
recovered  your  purse,  take  it  for  a  good 
omen." 

"How  kind  you  are,  Kitty!  You  don't 
know  how  kind  you  are." 

"  Come,  George,  you  have  kept  every  one 
waiting  long  enough." 

"  They  need  not  wait  for  me,  Harriet,  I  am 
not  going  home  with  them." 

And  from  this  position  George  would  not 
be  moved.  The  rest  of  the  party  were  sitting 
on  the  turf,  or  rocks,  at  the  entrance  of  the 
dell,  amid  forced  laughter  and  badinage  wait 
ing  the  end  of  the  drama.  Kitty  and  Harriet 
joined  them.  Colonel  Sutcliffe  only  delayed 
long  enough  to  say  : 

"  George,  why  don't  you  follow  her  ?  Make 
haste.  You  can  surely  overtake  her  on  the 
Shergy." 

"  Thank   you.      I    will.     I    had    forgotten ; 


THE  HEART  OF  BELLA    CLUCAS.         199 

get  the  girls  away.  I  hardly  know  what  I  am 
doing." 

In  a  few  moments  he  was  alone,  and  then  he 
followed  Bella,  with  fleet  footsteps.  But  a 
woman  walking  to  some  vehement  feeling  is 
difficult  to  keep  step  with,  much  less  to  over 
take.  George  did  not  see  her  until  he  stepped 
upon  the  Shergy,  and  then  only  very  far  off, 
a  swiftly  moving  figure  deaf  to  his  calls  and 
beyond  his  reach. 

Indeed  she  was  not  only  obeying  the  imper 
ative  need  of  her  restless  heart  by  her  rapid 
walking,  she  was  also  anxious  to  reach  her 
home  and  bespeak  her  mother's  sympathy, 
before  the  return  of  her  father  and  Gale.  But 
in  this  desire  she  was  disappointed.  When 
she  entered  the  cottage  she  found  them 
already  there.  Her  mother  was  spreading  the 
cloth  for  the  evening  meal,  and  Ruthie  sat  in 
his  big  chair  on  the  hearthstone,  examining 
his  almanac  and  humming  snatches  of  an  old 
Manx  ballad  concerning  the  fight  between 
Ivor  and  Roderikk.  Gale  was  studying  the 
lines  on  paper  of  a  new  boat  which  he  in 
tended  to  build. 


2oo  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

"  I  like  the  lines,"  said  Gale,  "  she'll  be  won 
derful  weatherly — aw  wonderful ! 

'  They're  makin'  me  laugh, 

Them  chaps  with  their  yachts,  the  onaisy  they  are, 
And  the  delicate,  and  the  particular ! 
Chut !  the  trim  is  in  the  boat. 
Ballast  away  !   but  the  trim's  in  the  float, 
In  the  very  make  of  her.     That's  the  trimmin' ! 
And  by  gough,  it's  the  same  with  men  and  women.'  * 

Bella,  bless  my  soul !  what  is  the  matter  with 
you  ?  " 

"  I'm  sick,  Gale,  and  havin'  a  turn.  I'll  be 
spakin'  in  a  minute  or  two." 

She  went  into  a  little  shed  where  there  was 
always  cold  water  and  splashed  it  over  her 
face  and  throat  and  arms,  and  then  drank  a 
deep  draught.  Her  mother  watched  her  with 
pitiful  eyes.  "  You've  had  a  trouble,  Bella. 
Oh,  ma  chree,  you've  had  a  trouble  !  " 

"A  bitter  cup  to  drink,  mother,  and  when 
I've  spoke  to  father  and  Gale  send  me  to  my 
bed.  It's  alone,  alone,  I  want  to  be,  needin' 
peace  more  than  food  or  drink,  or  even  the 
kind  word." 

"  Alone  you  shall  be,  Bella,  alone  till  you're 
*  The  Doctor. 


THE  HEART  OF  BELLA    CLUCAS.         2OI 

wantin'  your  mother,  ma  chree,  and  then  there's 
my  heart  to  bury  your  sorrow  in,  and  my 
tongue  to  spake  for  you." 

Bella  laid  her  cheek  against  her  mother's 
cheek,  and  holding  her  hand  they  went  to 
gether  to  the  sitting-room. 

"  Father." 

Ruthie  put  down  his  almanac  and  took  off 
his  spectacles,  and  looked  into  his  daughter's 
white  face  with  a  curious  anxiety. 

"  My  lass,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Father,  I  want  to  tell  you,  and  Gale,  and 
mother,"  she  turned  to  Gale  as  she  named  him, 
and  held  tighter  her  mother's  hand,  "  I  want  to 
tell  you  all  a  true  word.  You  bade  me  never 
speak  to  Captain  Pennington  again.  I  spoke 
to  him  to-day,  but  I  promise  you  never  more, 
never  while  the  tide  swells  or  the  moon 
shines." 

"  My  lass  !  My  lass  !  I've  been  afeard  of 
him,  mortal.  But  if  you'll  stand  to  that,  the 
happy  you'll  make  me,  you  can't  tell  the 
happy  !  " 

"  I'll  stand  to  it." 

"  The  for  ?  "  asked  Gale,  laying  down  his 
papers  and  going  to  Bella's  side.  "  The  for  ? 


202  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

What  has  he  done  to  you  ?  What  has  he 
said  ?  " 

"  He's  done  nothin",  Gale,  and  what  he  said 
I  answered.  There  isn't  one  word  owin'.  But 
I  feel  as  if  I  had  paid  him  with  my  life-blood. 
I  must  go  away — never  name  him  in  my 
hearin',  I  don't  know  him.  Mirrieu !  Mir- 
rieu  !  Dead  !  dead  !  "  She  put  her  head  on 
her  mother's  breast  and  shuddered  from  head 
to  foot. 

Ruthie  stood  up  and  kissed  her.  He  took 
her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  again,  looking 
into  his  wife's  face  with  an  understanding  sym 
pathy.  Then  Mary  went  with  her  daughter  to 
the  small  room  which  was  her  own.  She  loos 
ened  her  clothing,  unshod  her  feet,  and  helped 
her,  as  if  she  had  been  a  little  child,  to  rest. 
And  rough  as  the  men  were,  they  understood 
that  there  was  a  great  sorrow  in  the  house,  and 
they  were  capable  of  saluting  it.  They  spoke 
in  whispers,  they  set  their  cups  down  gently, 
and  moved  about  the  room  as  quietly  as  if 
Bella's  life  depended  upon  their  silence.  And 
by  and  by  they  went  to  bed  and  fell  to  musing 
and  sleeping  and  dreaming  each  after  his  own 
fashion.  But  the  mother  sat  watching  over 


THE  HEART  OF  BELLA    CLUCAS.         203 

the  smouldering  peats,  watching,  and  keeping 
the  vigil  of  sorrow  with  her  suffering  child. 

For  Bella  was  suffering  as  only  such  splen 
did  vitality  can  suffer.  Every  pulse  was  an 
agony,  her  heart  felt  as  if  it  had  been  really 
crushed  and  rended,  she  had  the  physical  pang 
of  heartache.  With  hands  tightly  clasped  and 
eyes  wide  open  she  lay  enduring,  while  her 
soul  went  sadly  through  all  the  dim,  vast  rooms 
of  memory,  making  broken  moans  as  it  went, 
in  pity  for  herself. 

Alas!  Alas!  The  bitter  hours  of  such  soul 
wandering  within  hopeless  sight  of  hope !  It 
was  a  lifelong  night.  She  was  so  weary  with 
thought  that  she  would  fain  have  steeped  her 
soul  deep  in  sleep.  And  she  bore  it  alone. 
She  would  have  no  human  comforter,  and  in 
that  extremity  God  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
her.  She  whispered  a  few  formal  words  from 
the  evening  service,  but  the  use  and  wont  of 
supplication  availed  her  nothing  at  this  hour. 
She  knew  in  her  soul  that  this  vain  prayer 
would  fall  from  out  her  prayers.  She  was 
learning  the  lesson  most  mortals  have  to  learn, 
that  some  way,  some  day,  God,  for  reasons  in 
finitely  kind,  sows  the  path  of  love  with  thorns. 


CHAPTER  XI. 
MRS.  PENNINGTON'S  PERPLEXITY. 

"  We  also  have  sometimes  lain  asleep 
In  the  blessed  Chamber  of  Peace  ; 
Too  weary  to  wrestle,  or  watch,  or  weep, 
For  a  while  the  struggle  must  cease. 

We  give  thanks  for  the  weakness  that  makes  us  lie 

So  helpless  and  calm  for  a  while  ; 
The  roar  of  the  battle  goes  hoarsely  by, 

And  we  hear  it  in  dreams  with  a  smile." 

FINDING  it  impossible  either  to  gain 
Bella's  attention  or  arrest  her  steps, 
George  Pennington  turned  back  to  the  spot 
at  which  the  miserable  interview  had  taken 
place.  He  was  altogether  in  too  great  a 
tumult  of  feeling  to  come  to  any  mental  esti 
mate  regarding  his  conduct.  But  the  power 
within  him  had  already  given  its  strict  verdict, 
even  by  his  own  lips.  For  his  very  footsteps 
kept  time  to  the  slow  or  impetuous  utterance 
of  the  only  words  which  he  could  say,  "  Fool ! 
fool !  fool !  " 

204 


MRS.   PENNINGTON'S  PERPLEXITY.      205 

Now  that  Bella  was  lost,  she  appeared  to 
him  the  supremely  desirable  thing  in  life. 
Her  little  gaucheries,  her  doric  patois,  the 
simplicity  of  her  dress,  things  that  had  often 
given  him  a  passing  annoyance,  became  but 
part  and  parcel  of  a  humanity  exceeding 
sweet  and  beautiful.  He  could  get  no  com 
fort  from  any  attempt  to  depreciate  the  treas 
ure  he  had  so  wickedly  and  cruelly  flung  away. 

She  had  told  him  a  thing  also  which  he 
could  not  deny.  However  scandalous  and 
wicked  the  act,  it  was  quite  true  that  he  had 
tried  to  slay  her  honor  with  her  love.  He 
knew  that  he  had  been  guilty  of  an  infamy 
that  ought  to  make  him  hateful  in  the  sight 
of  every  gentle  and  honorable  man. 

He  recalled,  with  a  kind  of  wonder  at  his 
own  stupidity,  the  expression  on  her  face  at 
the  beginning  of  that  shameful  interview,  the 
set,  stern  expression  of  her  knitted  brows,  the 
look  of  moral  measurement  in  her  eyes  which 
he  had  felt,  but  not  at  the  time  comprehended. 
It  was  clear  to  him  now,  that  when  the  purse 
dropped  from  her  fingers  she  had  become  sus 
picious  of  his  intentions,  and  jealous  and 
watchful  of  her  own  honor. 


206  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

In  the  irritation  of  his  self-accusing,  it  was 
some  comfort  to  have  Harriet  and  the  whole 
"  giggling,  blundering  crowd "  to  vent  his 
wrath  upon.  He  felt  sure  that  Harriet  had 
recognized  Bella  and  himself,  and  seeing  them 
land  at  Vorg  Inlet  had  persuaded  the  party  to 
visit  the  fairy  dell.  He  remembered  then  that 
it  had  a  certain  reputation  among  young  peo 
ple  for  a  wishing-well,  which  bubbled  up 
among  the  ferns  and  rocks,  and  had  for  lovers 
some  magical  quality.  Harriet  had  doubtless 
used  this  pretext  to  lure  the  company,  and  to 
carry  out  an  ill-natured  plan  for  making 
trouble  between  Bella  and  himself.  And  it  is 
so  decidedly  unpleasant  to  be  angry  with 
one's  own  conduct,  that  there  is  no  wonder 
George  nursed  this  idea  until  he  shifted  all 
blame  for  the  miserable  situation  to  his  sister. 

"  If  she  had  not  come,  Bella  would  not  have 
hurried  away.  He  would  have  found  out 
arguments  to  pacify  her.  He  would  have 
held  her  feet  with  his  entreaties.  He  would 
have  kissed  his  pardon  from  her  lips."  And 
he  would  not  think  that  he  had  committed  an 
unpardonable  offence.  He  told  himself  that 
it  was  in  the  very  nature  of  women  to  believe 


MRS.   PENNINGTON'S  PERPLEXITY.      207 

in  men  whom  they  had  detected,  and  continue 
to  love  those  whom  they  had  seen  to  be  un 
worthy  of  love. 

He  still  called  himself  fool,  but  with  less 
passionate  conviction,  for  he  was  now  certain 
that,  if  other  people  had  not  interfered,  he 
would  have  gained  his  uttermost  desires. 
His  heart  was  so  naturally  weak  that  he  was 
incapable  of  believing  in  a  woman's  power  to 
resist  a  temptation  which  appealed  so  power 
fully  to  his  own  senses.  He  dared  to  imagine 
a  moment  when  Bella,  having  satisfied  her 
self-respect  by  an  indignant  opposition,  would 
satisfy  her  love  by  a  half-reluctant,  but  alto 
gether  implicit,  submission  to  his  wishes. 

The  possibility  remained.  He  roused  him 
self  to  the  hope  it  inspired,  and  went  rapidly 
to  his  boat.  The  fresh  wind  from  the  open 
sea  blew  away  his  mental  disquiet.  The 
delicious  saline  scent  of  the  sea-weeds  gave 
him  a  singular  sense  of  strength.  It  acted 
upon  his  unstrung  nerves  as  pungent  salts  act 
upon  a  faint,  hysterical  woman.  He  seized 
the  oars,  and  with  rapid  sweeps  pulled  for 
Castletovvn  Pier.  The  sun  was  just  setting, 
and  there  was  quite  a  company  of  officers  an4 


2o8  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

pretty  girls  walking  on  the  narrow  sea-wall,  or 
the  military  parade.  None  of  them  had,  at 
that  hour,  power  to  win  more  than  a  passing 
salute  from  him.  His  sister  Harriet  was  the 
one  woman  he  wished  to  see. 

She  met  him  at  the  door.  "  George,"  she 
said,  "  step  softly.  Mother  has  been  ill  and  is 
asleep.  Doctor  Grageen  has  just  gone.  She 
would  not  allow  me  to  be  sent  for,  and  so  he 
remained  in  the  house  until  I  returned." 

"  Any  one  might  have  seen  that  mother  was 
ill  this  morning.  I  wonder  you  left  her !  " 

"  And  you  ?  " 

"  Women  are  supposed  to  know  each  other's 
troubles;  a  mother  naturally  looks  for  phys 
ical  sympathy  from  her  daughter." 

"  Mother  has  been  sick  ever  since  you  came 
home.  She  never  before  had  these  attacks 
of  fainting.  You  are  to  blame  for  them,  in 
some  way,  I  am  sure." 

His  trenchant  aspect  irritated  her.  She 
moved  the  tea-cups  impatiently,  and  began  to 
pour  out  the  fragrant  stimulating  draught. 
He  drank  it  with  eager  haste,  and  then, 
without  deigning  to  answer  her  accusation, 
askecl: 


MRS.  PENtttffGotf's  PERPLEXITY,    209 

i 

"What  made  you  bring  that  babbling  crowd 
after  me  this  afternoon  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  bring  them.  You  are  my  broth 
er,  do  you  think  I  took  any  pleasure  in  your 
humiliation  ?  " 

"  Humiliation?" 

"  Certainly.  Even  if  we  had  not  heard 
Bella's  last  words,  her  attitude  was  eloquent 
enough.  You  have  made  a  town's  talk  of 
yourself." 

"  I  can't  help  women  talking." 

"To  be  refused,  socrnfully  refused,  by  that 
fisher-girl !  George  Pennington,  what  did  you 
say  to  her?  She  was  in  a  most  unlady-like 
temper." 

"  Were  there  any  remarks  made  in  the  boat 
as  you  returned  ?  " 

"  Remarks!  Kitty  Dinwoodie  behaved 
shamefully  to  me.  I  shall  not  ask  her  to 
be  my  bridesmaid  now." 

"  Unfortunate  Kitty." 

"  Of  course  I  made  some  remarks !  How 
could  I  pass  such  a  scene  by?  I  had  to  re- 
mark  that  you  had  been  in  love  with  Bella 
Clucas  ever  since  you  were  a  boy." 

"  All  right.     That  is  perfectly  correct." 


2 id  FEET  OP  CLAY. 

"  I  had  to  explain  how  much  mother  and  I 
disapproved  of  your  attachment,  and  then 
Kitty  flamed  up  like  gunpowder,  and  said — " 

"  What  did  she  say !  Tell  me  the  truth, 
Harriet." 

"  She  said  that  every  officer  in  the  barracks 
and  every  sailor  in  the  boats,  and  every  young 
man  in  the  town  that  had  an  ounce  of  sense, 
was  in  love  with  Bella  Clucas.  I  reminded 
her  of  your  position  in  life,  and  she  answered 
quite  sharply  that  Bella  was  good  enough  fora 
better  man.  And  as  for  being  a  fisher-girl, 
perhaps  I  did  not  know  that  her  father  had 
married  a  fisher-girl,  Nora  Clukish  of  Cregy- 
y-neesh.  Then  she  fell  most  absurdly  into 
dialect,  and  added,  'A  poor  gel  of  coorse,  but 
havin'  a  pedigree  longer  than  any  king  in 
Europe,  for  all.  And  the  good  she  is,  and  the 
sweet,  and  the  glory  my  father  is  takin'  in  her, 
and  the  love  in  my  heart!  Aw  wonderful! '  " 

"Kitty  Dinwoodie  is  a  treasure,  the  noblest 
girl  in  the  island,  except  Bella." 

"  The  idea  of  Major  Dinwoodie  going  into 
the  fishing-cottages  for  a  wife.  Kitty  had  no 
right  to  tell  a  thing  like  that  about  her  father 
and  mother.  Such  imprudences  come  of  tern- 


MRS.   PENNINGTON*S  PERPLEXITY.      Hi 

per.  There  was  a  most  uncomfortable  feeling, 
I  assure  you,  for  though  all  the  men  pretended 
to  applaud  Kitty's  independence,  it  was  a 
most  trying  situation  for  every  girl  present, 
and  Harr  Sutcliffe,  who  always  will  attempt 
to  make  things  agreeable,  really  went  too  far. 
I  felt  hurt  at  the  attention  he  paid  to  Kitty. 
I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  treat  her  with 
more  ceremony  for  the  future." 

"  Very  well.  Do  you  feel  as  if  it  would  be 
kind  to  see  how  mother  is?" 

"You  need  not  remind  me  of  my  duty, 
George.  I  suppose  you  want  to  go  out 
again?" 

"  If  mother  wishes  to  see  me,  she  is  before 
every  one  and  everything;  if  not,  I  will  go 
and  take  a  short  walk,  and  a  cigar." 

"You  will  go  to  Glen  Mellish.  You  think 
Bella  is  miserable,  and  will  meet  you  there, 
as  usual." 

"Are  you  judging  Bella  by  yourself?" 

"  George  Pennington  !  " 

"  Harriet  Pennington  !  " 

The  flinging  of  their  personal  cognomen  at 
each  other  was  usually  the  Parthian  shot  in  all 
their  disputes.  It  meant  no  serious  ill-will, 


212  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

for  family  ties  bear  a  tremendous  strain  before 
the  tug  weakens  them.  George  loved  his 
sister  with  a  very  solid,  satisfactory  affection  ; 
and  Harriet  not  only  returned  it  fully,  she  also 
felt  for  her  brother's  beauty  and  accomplish 
ments  a  most  sincere  admiration.  She  rated 
him  to  his  face  much  lower  than  she  rated 
him  when  he  was  not  present,  she  often  spoke 
slightingly  to  him,  but  she  would  not  have 
permitted  any  other  human  being  to  speak 
slightingly  of  him. 

But  though  man  may  control  his  domestic 
arrangements,  he  cannot  enter  into  any  cove 
nant  with  nature.  When  George  was  ready 
to  seek  the  trysting-place  in  Glen  Hellish,  he 
found  that  the  weather  had  changed.  A  tor 
rent  of  slant  rain  was  falling,  and  the  wind 
rolled  with  strange  sounds  down  the  cold  in 
lets  and  went  moaning  across  the  bay.  The 
sky  was  like  iron,  and  in  the  darkness  nothing 
could  be  seen  but  the  flash  of  the  white  horses 
as  they  trampled  and  reared  far  out  at  sea. 

Besides  George  was  heart-confident  that 
Bella  would  not  be  in  Glen-Hellish  even  if  the 
atmosphere  were  a  blue  transparency  ablaze 
with  stars.  He  knew  her  too  well  to  hope 


MRS.   PENNINGTON'S  PERPLEXITY.      213 

that  she  had  already  forgiven  him,  he  knew 
that  the  real  decision  of  his  clearest  judgment 
was,  that  she  never  would  forgive  him.  But 
as  the  days  went  monotonously  on,  soaked 
with  rain  and  gray  with  driving  fogs,  the 
young  man  became  unable  to  endure  the  sus 
pense. 

He  wrote  a  letter  to  Bella,  and  a  fisher-lad 
brought  it  back  to  him  unopened.  And  in 
those  days  letters  kept  their  secrets,  they  did 
not  permit  an  offended  person  to  at  once 
gratify  their  curiosity  and  their  pride.  George 
knew  that  his  folded  message  closed  with  wax, 
and  stamped  with  his  private  seal,  had  said 
nothing  to  Bella  either  secretly  or  authorita 
tively.  However,  after  a  few  more  miserable 
days,  which  he  spent  in  exploring  his  affec 
tions,  in  counting  his  wounds,  in  telling  him 
self  that  all  was  over,  that  his  happiness  was 
wrecked  and  his  love  slain,  he  wrote  once 
more.  It  was  a  beautiful  and  touching  effu 
sion.  He  felt  sure  that  if  Bella  read  it  she 
would  not  be  able  to  resist  his  entreaties  for 
another  interview. 

But  Bella  did  not  read  it.  When  brought 
to  her  bedside  she  regarded  it  with  that 


2 14  PEET  OF  CLAY. 

apathy  which  exhaustion  from  physical  suffer 
ing  induces.  "  'Tis  a  letter  from  Captain  Pen- 
nington  ;  will  I  be  reading  it  to  you,  ma 
chree?"  Bella  shut  her  eyes,  and  with  her 
wasted  hand  made  a  faint  motion  to  indicate 
her  reluctance  and  dislike.  So  the  letter  was 
returned,  as  its  predecessor  had  been. 

It  was  some  relief  to  the  sombre  unhappi- 
ness  of  those  days,  that  Mrs.  Pennington  with 
her  gradual  recovery  became  possessed  by  one 
idea,  that  of  Harriet's  marriage.  The  poor 
lady  knew  that  in  this  last  attack  she  had 
received  her  death-warrant.  As  she  lay  mo 
tionless  and  speechless  on  her  bed,  her  heart 
and  her  conscience  were  arguing  out  some 
terrible  questions : 

"Ought  she  to  tell  Colonel  Sutcliffe  that  the 
girl  he  loved  was  the  daughter  of  a  felon  ? 

"  If  she  did  so,  how  would  a  man  so  sensi 
tively  honorable  take  the  revelation  ? 

"  Would  he  not  say  to  her,  '  When  I  asked 
for  your  daughter's  hand,  why  was  I  not  made 
acquainted  with  this  dreadful  fact '  ? 

"Would  he  desert  Harriet?  If  so,  what 
shame,  what  scandals,  what  endless  suppositions 
they  must  endure  !  Colonel  Sutcliffe  would 


MRS.   PEtfNWG  TON'S  PERPLEXITY.      2i£ 

certainly  say  nothing,  but  might  not  they  be 
compelled  to  tell  the  truth  in  order  to  prevent 
suspicions  even  more  disgraceful  ? 

"If  he  deserted  Harriet,  how  were  they  to 
face  the  circumstance  ?  Should  they  go  away, 
or  bear  the  brunt  of  the  social  storm  and  trust 
to  time  to  efface  the  shame  ? 

"  How  would  Harriet  personally  endure  the 
horror  of  the  revelation  and  the  cruel  disap 
pointment  ?  Would  it  make  her  ill  ? 

"Would  she  herself  be  able  to  bear  the 
anguish  long  enough  to  sustain  her  child 
through  the  first  pangs  of  her  calamity? 

"  Even  if  Colonel  Sutcliffe  behaved  with  a 
chivalric  kindness  and  honor  they  had  no  right 
to  expect,  how  would  it  influence  her  daugh 
ter's  married  life  ?  Would  not  the  noblest 
nature  in  the  long  run  grow  irritated  by  the 
whisper  which  nothing  would  constantly  sup 
press  :  '  My  wife  is  the  child  of  a  felon,  and  my 
children — '  Such  thoughts  could  not  be  pre 
vented,  they  would  leave  in  the  heart  the 
leaven  of  their  own  miserable  shame,  they 
would  eventually  corrode  the  sweetest  affection, 
the  brightest  nature." 

One  by  one  these  hard  facts  resolved  them- 


216  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

selves  into  problems,  the  solution  of  which 
destroyed  her  last  illusions  and  drove  her  into 
the  necessity  of  some  irrecoverable  decision. 
At  first  she  only  considered  the  case  as  it  re 
garded  Harriet,  but  the  claims  of  others  also 
demanded  a  hearing,  and  would  not  be  put 
aside.  And  the  poor  mother  shuddered  when 
she  tried  to  imagine  what  might  be  the  result 
of  this  infamous  secret  upon  her  son. 

She  had  the  usual  superstition  that  the 
honor  of  men  is  something  more  precious  and 
more  sensitive  than  that  of  women.  Harriet 
might  shut  herself  away  from  the  world, 
George  must  face  its  cruellest  scorn.  And 
much  as  she  loved  her  son,  she  appraised  very 
fairly  his  moral  courage.  "  He  will  go  all 
wrong  together,  he  will  sink  to  the  level 
society  will  pitilessly  assign  him.  I  cannot,  I 
cannot,  place  him  in  such  frightful  circum 
stances  !  " 

With  this  thought  always  came  another : 
"  Robert  Pennington  above  all  others  must  be 
kept  in  ignorance."  She  knew  quite  well  what 
course  her  brother-in-law  would  take.  He 
would  have  no  hesitation  about  telling  the 
whole  truth  without  reservations  or  excuses  to 


MA'S.   PENtfJNGTQ&'S  PERPLEXITY.      217 

Colonel  Sutcliffe.  He  would  say,  "  We  believed 
this  man  to  be  dead.  We  believed  it  to  be 
out  of  his  power  to  bring  shame  upon  his  inno 
cent  children.  We  find  that  he  is  alive.  His 
future  conduct  is  uncertain,  and  we  will  not 
permit  him  the  opportunity  to  disgrace  another 
honorable  family."  She  knew  that  on  this 
ground  he  would  oppose  the  marriage  of  his 
niece,  and  she  was  quite  aware  that  in  the  end 
they  would  be  compelled  to  surrender  their 
will  to  his,  "and  it  would  be  right,  and  just, 
and  honorable,  as  men  look  at  such  things," 
the  tortured  dying  woman  whispered. 

But  there  are  born  mothers,  as  there  are 
born  artists,  or  born  poets,  or  born  scientists. 
Martha  Pennington,  without  being  foolishly 
demonstrative,  had  the  motherly  instinct  in 
a  superlative  degree.  She  permitted  these 
thoughts  and  many  others  to  pass  through  her 
mind,  but  the  end  of  all  her  solitary  arguments 
was  the  same  :  "  My  children  are  not  held  by 
the  good  God  responsible  for  their  father's  sin, 
I  will  not  make  them  responsible  to  the  world. 
I  will  not  speak  to  Robert  Pennington  or 
Colonel  Sutcliffe  about  my  trouble  ;  it  is  to 
the  Father  in  Heaven  I  will  open  my  heart.  I 


2l8  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

will  tell  Him  everything.  He  will  understand 
me." 

When  she  had  definitely  reached  this  con 
clusion,  she  had  an  uncontrollable  desire  to 
consummate  as  quickly  as  possible  her  plans. 
Her  precarious  health  was  a  sufficient  excuse 
for  hurrying  forward  the  marriage,  but  as  it 
happened  no  excuse  was  needed.  Colonel 
Sutcliffe's  father  was  also  in  ill  health  and  was 
anxiously  urging  his  son  to  resign  his  commis 
sion  and  assume  the  charge  of  the  estate,  so 
that  a  final  arrangement  for  the  ceremony  on 
the  twentieth  of  December  gave  general  satis 
faction.  Immediately  after  it  the  young 
couple  were  to  go  to  Sutcliffe  Manor  in  York 
shire,  to  spend  the  Christmas  holidays. 

Everything  then  in  the  house  tended  to 
ward  this  event.  Harriet,  delightfully  hurried 
on  every  hand,  found  the  dull  days  bright  days, 
and  the  long  hours  far  too  short  for  all  her  en 
gagements.  The  house  was  always  pleasantly 
full  of  young  ladies.  Harriet  had  a  queer 
kind  of  authority,  she  was  a  temporary  queen 
entitled  to  their  homage  and  their  service. 
But  Kitty  Dinwoodie  was  not  among  them. 
She  had  not  quite  forgiven  Harriet  for  tempt- 


MRS.   PENNINGTON'S  PERPLEXITY.      219 

ing  her  into  such  an  unconventional  defence  of 
Captain  Pennington's  love-affair,  and  she  fan 
cied  that  Captain  Pennington  was  a  little  pre 
suming  upon  her  favor  in  consequence. 

Kitty's  defection,  however,  did  not  much 
trouble  Harriet,  for  she  was  at  this  time  in  a 
charitable  mood  with  all  the  world.  Two  days 
before  her  marriage  she  went  one  afternoon 
through  the  home  which  she  was  soon  to  leave 
forever,  and  her  heart  softened  and  glowed 
within  her.  All  around  were  tokens  of  love, 
gems,  and  laces,  and  lustrous  silks,  and  em 
broidered  crapes,  which  had  come  from  out  the 
scented  depths  of  her  mother's  cabinet.  They 
filled  the  room  with  Oriental  airs  of  sandal 
wood  and  cedar,  calamus  and  nard  and  myrrh. 
Her  uncle's  splendid  gifts  were  upon  her  dress 
ing-table.  Her  bridal  robes  were  lying  in 
their  white  cases.  There  were  a  hundred 
pretty  tokens  of  affection  beneath  her  eyes. 

Yet  as  she  looked  at  them  with  pride  and 
pleasure,  it  suddenly  struck  her  that  one  was 
wanting.  Bella  had  sent  her  no  gift,  and  no 
message  of  congratulation.  The  thought  was 
a  sudden  chill  to  her.  "  Perhaps  I  have  been 
too  proud  and  cross.  Bella  was  fond  of  me. 


220  FEET  OF   CLAY. 

How  often  we  talked  of  my  wedding  and  of 
her  share  in  it !  I  think  I  ought  to  write  to  her." 
She  knew  indeed  that  she  had  promised  Bella 
the  dignity  of  being  one  of  the  bridal  maids. 
She  had  even  pleased  herself  with  the  thought 
of  the  girl's  magnificent  beauty  robed  in  diaph 
anous  white,  and  pink  rosebuds.  She  did  not 
wish  to  go  as  far  as  that  now,  she  naturally  dis 
liked  the  old-fashioned  form  of  keeping  her 
word :  to  be  able  to  forget,  that  is  one  of  the 
privileges  of  the  rich  and  happy.  But  she 
could  write.  It  would  be  pleasant  to  see  Bella 
once  more,  pleasant  to  part  friends  with  her, 
very  pleasant  to  show  her  all  the  beautiful 
garments  and  delightful  presents  she  had  re 
ceived. 

Now  it  really  does  happen,  that  the  things 
which  alter  our  lives  and  give  us  our  strongest 
emotions,  appeal  for  our  decision  in  the  most 
commonplace  manner  and  at  times  the  very 
reverse  of  picturesque.  Bella  was  washing  the 
breakfast  dishes  when  Harriet's  letter  was  put 
into  her  hand.  She  knew  at  once  from  whom 
it  had  come,  she  divined  its  purport,  she  felt 
the  answer  to  it  might  give  the  bias  to  her 
future  fortune.  For  she  suspected  that  it  had 


MRS.   PENNINGTON'S  PERPLEXITY.      221 

been  written  at  the  solicitation  of  George,  and 
that  therefore  a  favorable  one  would  be  taken 
as  the  first  step  towards  a  reconciliation. 

Her  mother  watched  her  anxiously,  but  she 
did  not  offer  either  a  word  of  advice  or  of 
warning.  The  girl  must  be  left  to  decide 
for  herself ;  at  the  last,  it  would  come  to  that. 
Bella  sat  down,  and  let  the  letter,  with  its 
dainty  pale-blue  seal,  lie  unopened  in  her  hand. 

The  weeks  which  had  passed  since  that 
miserable  interview  in  Vorg  Inlet  had  written 
their  sad  history  on  the  girl's  face  and  form. 
Most  of  them  had  been  spent  in  the  semi- 
delirium  of  fever,  and  she  had  risen  from  her 
bed  of  suffering  shorn  of  the  glory  of  her 
youth.  Her  fine  hair  had  been  cut  short,  her 
radiant  color  was  gone,  she  had  wasted  fright 
fully,  and  was  still  so  weak  and  nervous  that 
Harriet's  letter  trembled  in  her  clasp,  as  if  it 
was  shaken  by  a  wind. 

"Shall  I  read  it,  mother?  It  is  from  Miss 
Harriet." 

"  I  would,  Bella.  If  there's  temptation  in  it, 
face  it  ;  that's  the  way,  ma  chree." 

It  was  a  very  kind  letter  ;  that  is,  the  words 
were  kind  words,  and  the  reflections  were  at 


222  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

least  not  harder  on  Bella  than  on  others.  But 
it  carried  with  it  an  atmosphere  of  vaunting, 
egotistical  happiness  which  Harriet  could  not 
repress,  and  which  Bella's  sad  and  wounded 
soul  shrank  from.  None  of  its  specious  pleasant 
words  deceived  her.  People  in  soul-sickness 
often  attain  to  a  kind  of  prescience  which  does 
not  altogether  desert  them  for  many  days,  and 
Bella,  still  in  this  abnormal  state  of  intelligence, 
put  every  word  in  its  proper  place,  and  esti 
mated  every  profession  at  its  proper  value. 

When  she  had  read  it  to  the  last  letter  of  its 
neat  signature  she  looked  up  with  kindling 
eyes  and  flushing  face.  "She's  wantin'  me  to 
go  to  the  House,  and  promised  she  says,  and 
all  to  that :  seemin'  kind,  but,  but  I'm  not 
takin'  it  so." 

"  Allis  she  was  sayin'  that  you  were  to  stand 
at  her  side  when  she  would  be  marriet." 

"  Aw  then,  it  is  Frances  Kelly  and  Christina 
Caine,  and  the  rest  of  the  quality  now.  Well, 
she's  used  of  the  like,  and  the  quality  stands 
by  the  quality  whether  or  not,  you'll  give  in 
to  that,  and  me  only  a  common  pessin." 

"  You're  every  taste  as  good  as  she  is,  I  tell 
ye,  and  you  should  be  havin'  more  sense  than 


MRS.   PENNINGTON'S  PERPLEXITY.      223 

to  be  pullin'  down  yourself,  for  it's  pullin' 
down  all  with  you  and  afore  you  ;  middlin' 
bad,  Bella,  is  that." 

"  We  know  nothin'  about  them  aifore  us." 

"Aw  then,  if  I  didn'  know  nothin'  about 
nothin'  I  leave  it  so.  Bless  me,  it  isn'  raison- 
able  not  to  do  that,  eh  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  going  to  the  House,  not  I  !  It's  to 
look  at  her  fine  clothes  and  her  fine  presents 
she's  callin'  me.  Aw  you  better  believe  it  is! 
The  cup  she's  drinkin'  isn'  sweet  enough  till 
she's  seem'  my  tears  in  it ;  and  her  joy  not 
puffic  wantin'  the  sight  of  my  misery.  I'm 
understandin'  it  all,  mayve  better  than  she 
does  herself." 

"A  fine  weddin'  though,  Bella,  aisy  to  know 
that." 

"  Aw  yes  ;  a  mortal  show,  never  fear !  And 
the  whole  parish  there,  but  Bella  Clucas ! 
No !  Tis  a  poor  letter,  mother,  I'm  not 
mindin'  it.  I  know  the  lot :  proud  !  aw  scan 
dalous  !  and  selfish  I  tell  ye,  selfish  thallure  !  " 

A  crisis  is  the  occasion  for  a  predominating 
influence  to  declare  itself,  and  Mary  Clucas  re 
garded  any  overture  from  the  Penningtons  as 
a  crisis  in  her  daughter's  life.  If  she  accepted 


224  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

it,  she  knew  that  George  would  regain  his 
influence  over  her ;  if  not,  she  would  believe 
that  Bella's  humiliation  and  suffering  had  not 
been  in  vain.  "  Tis  a  poor  letter,  mother,  I'm 
not  mindin'  it ";  how  comforting  were  the 
words,  and  the  decision  implied  by  them. 
For  though  the  mother  did  not  think  of  ex 
pressing  the  feeling,  she  knew  in  her  heart 
that  a  hard  experience  either  makes  us  better 
or  worse  and  that  if  Bella  in  feeding  on  the 
bread  of  bitterness  had  come  to  her  full  moral 
stature,  and  found  out  her  moral  strength, 
comfort  would  certainly  follow  sorrow,  and 
peace  grow  out  of  strife. 

Generally  great  renunciations  are  accom 
plished  without  words.  The  two  women 
looked  at  each  other.  The  mother's  eyes  were 
full  of  tears.  Bella  answered  them  with  ca 
resses,  that  beautiful  language  for  those  whose 
hearts  are  too  full  for  words.  There  was  now 
an  intimate  content  between  them,  and  Bella, 
who  had  never  complained  much,  after  this 
did  not  complain  at  all.  Thus  do  the  eternal 
verities  grow  from  out  the  wrongs  and  disap 
pointments  of  time,  and  women  whose  feet  are 
in  the  dust  breathe  the  airs  of  immortality. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE   SWORD   OF  DAMOCLES. 
We  make  our  lives  as  we  sew — stitch  by  stitch. 

"  Each  man  has  some  one  object  of  pursuit 
And  lavishes  his  thoughts  delightedly 
On  the  dear  idol." 

"  Trouble  knows  no  rest, 
But  rolls  from  breast  to  breast  its  vagrant  tide." 

IF  people  will  only  recall  the  personalities 
and  circumstances  which  make  up  their 
knowledge  of  the  world,  they  will  be  amazed 
at  the  persistency  with  which  evident  happi 
ness  is  associated  with  some  hidden  tragedy. 
To  the  general  observer  Harriet  Pennington's 
life  appeared  to  be  altogether  in  the  sunshine. 
But  one  pale,  sad  woman  saw  the  shadow  of 
shame  and  sorrow  following  hard  after  her, 
and  she  watched  it  with  an  almost  breathless 
tension  of  agonizing  interest. 

All  Mrs.  Pennington's  hopes  and  fears  were 

fixed  upon  one  event.     If  only  Harriet  were 

married !     She  sat  in  these  last  days  almost 

motionless  by  her    window.     Her  eyes  were 

225 


keeping  watch,  her  ears  were  abnormally  sensi« 
tive.  If  that  step  were  to  approach  she  knew 
that  she  would  feel  it,  even  when  it  was  be 
yond  her  own  boundaries.  And  yet  she 
scarcely  thought  her  wretched  husband  would 
intrude  upon  his  daughter's  marriage  feast ; 
there  would  be  nothing  to  gain  by  such  an  act 
of  cruelty,  and  she  assured  herself  continually 
that  Arthur  Pennington  had  not  a  naturally 
malignant  nature. 

But  if  he  came  near  at  all,  if  she  were 
aware  of  his  presence,  if  she  saw  him,  it 
would  be  sufficient  to  snap  asunder  her  thread 
of  life,  already  frayed  and  worn  to  its  last 
thin  strand.  Such  an  event,  though  antici 
pated,  would  delay  the  marriage  for  at  least  a 
year.  Who  could  tell  what  revelations  might 
be  made  in  a  year!  The  dying  lady,  though 
these  thoughts  gnawed  at  the  very  threshold 
of  life,  forbade  herself  to  listen  to  them.  She 
closed  with  her  cold,  trembling  hands  every 
avenue  to  feeling,  and  sat  almost  breathless  in 
the  presence  of  God,  praying,  constantly  pray 
ing,  that  He  would  send  an  angel  to  guard  her 
gates  lest  "  one  that  troubleth  "  should  pass 
through  them. 


&W6X&  6P 

The  physician  who  watched  over  her  won 
dered  at  her  endurance.  He  gave  her  a  larger 
dose  of  his  favorite  drug,  and  remarked  com 
placently  on  its  potency.  He  would  have 
been  offended  if  she  had  told  him  her 
thought,  "  The  drug  is  powerless  to  help  me ; 
only  by  the  supernatural  is  the  soul  made 
strong  to  suffer  and  endure." 

At  last  the  morning  so  eagerly  watched  for 
arrived  ;  a  bright,  clear  morning  with  a  crisp 
feeling  in  the  air  and  lovely  patches  of  blue  in 
the  sky.  Harriet  was  exquisitely  dressed,  and 
when  the  last  flower  and  gem  had  been  put  in 
place  she  knelt  at  her  mother's  knee  and 
received  her  kiss  and  blessing.  The  beautiful 
ceremony  was  performed  under  exceptionally 
picturesque  conditions,  the  women  in  their 
splendid  dresses  being  thrown  into  the  finest 
relief  by  the  environment  of  the  military  ele 
ment,  and  the  outer  background  of  bronzed 
natives  with  their  dark  blue  garments  and 
unmistakable  air  and  look  of  the  sea. 

Mrs.  Pennington  imagined  it  all,  and  when 
Harriet  came  back  to  her  with  that  new  joy 
on  her  face  which  is  the  first  reflection  of 
happy  wifehood,  she  let  her  hands  fall  apart,  a 


T  OF  CLAY. 

faint  color  crept  to  her  cheeks,  and  she  sighed 
deeply  as  those  sigh  who  are  suddenly  relieved 
from  some  intolerable  burden.  But  even  yet 
her  soul  was  on  the  alert.  She  did  not  dare 
to  relax  its  watchfulness.  For  weeks  it  had 
been  going  to  and  fro  around  the  lives  of 
those  she  loved,  guarding  every  avenue  against 
evil,  a  combat  without  truce. 

For  this  poor,  weak  woman  believed  with  all 
her  soul  in  the  omnipotence  of  prayer.  God 
had  said,  "  Ask  all,  I  will  give  all,"  and  she 
obeyed  Him.  She  thought  it  impossible  that 
He  should  deceive  her.  She  believed  God 
heard  the  cry  of  her  disquieted  heart  amid 
the  harmonies  of  the  universe,  and  His  com 
mand  to  "  pray  without  ceasing,"  a  command 
which  terrifies  the  souls  at  ease,  gave  her  the 
only  sense  of  safety  and  peace  she  trusted  in. 
She  could  not  speak  to  her  children  or  friends, 
but  to  God  what  could  she  not  say?  And  it 
was  not  to  such  prayers  repetitions  were  for 
bidden.  Hers  was  the  widow's  importunity 
which  elicited  the  "  do  likewise."  She  told  all, 
she  asked  all,  and  she  made  her  request  con 
tinually.  What  else  is  prayer  than  this  ? 


TftE   SWORD   Of  DAMOCLES.  $2$ 

If  there  had  been  any  suspicion  in  the 
household  of  latent  trouble,  her  restless,  curi 
ous  questions  about  those  present  in  the 
church  might  have  aroused  it.  She  was 
scarcely  to  be  satisfied.  "  Was  there  no  one 
else  there?  Did  you  see  any  strangers? 
There  must  have  been  some  strangers ! " 
Over  and  over  she  endeavored  to  find  out  by 
such  remarks  if  all  the  spectators  had  been 
well-known  people.  The  answers  from  every 
one  were  satisfactory. 

When  the  day  was  quite  over,  when  Colonel 
Sutcliffe  and  his  bride  were  on  their  way  to 
Yorkshire,  when  the  guests  were  all  gone,  and 
only  Robert  Pennington  sat  with  his  nephew 
over  the  parlor  fire*  talking  of  the  day's  event, 
then  at  last  she  felt  that  she  might  say :  "  Re 
turn  unto  thy  rest,  O  my  soul !  "  Then  she 
lay  down,  and  like  a  little  child  waited  for  the 
healing  mystery  of  sleep,  still  as  the  grave, 
kind  as  heaven. 

"  He  has  gone  quite  away,"  she  whispered, 
"and  my  heart  was  unjust  to  him."  In  reality 
her  heart  had  been  a  true  diviner.  From  be 
hind  the  outermost  row  of  spectators  the  fa 
ther  of  the  bride  had  watched  her.  As  she 


passed  out  on  the  arm  of  her  husband  he  feit 
the  rose  scent  from  her  garments,  and  their 
rustle  stirred  his  heart  into  a  tumult.  He  saw 
the  blush  upon  her  cheek,  the  joy  in  her  eyes, 
the  smile  that  lingered  around  her  pretty 
mouth.  He  could  have  touched  her  hand. 
His  son  and  brother  passed  him  equally  close. 
But  his  form  was  hidden  behind  that  of  the 
sexton,  his  hat  shielded  the  upper  part  of  his 
face,  his  handkerchief  the  lower.  He  had  se 
lected  his  position  with  care,  and  secured  it 
with  a  generous  fee.  And  his  presence  was  a 
matter  of  no  importance  to  the  general  public  ; 
to  his  nearest  and  dearest  he  was  a  dead 
man.  After  all,  it  was  a  cruel  ordeal.  He  had 
never  before  realized  the  death  in  life  to  which 
his  crime  had  doomed  him.  He  went  from 
the  church  to  the  sea-shore  and  wept  bitterly, 
wept  such  tears  as  the  lost  angels  may  weep 
when  they  pass  the  gates  of  Paradise. 

Robert  Pennington  had  arrived  two  days 
before  the  marriage.  Indeed  it  was  his  splen 
did  gifts  which  had  so  enlarged  and  softened 
Harriet's  heart  that  she  felt  desirous  to  in 
clude  Bella  in  her  general  amnesty  with  the 
world.  Almost  his  first  words  to  his  sister- 


OP  D 


in-law  referred  to  the  man  whose  memory 
haunted  every  thought  she  had.  "  Martha," 
he  said,  "  I  bring  you  good  news.  I  have  had  a 
letter  from  one  of  the  three  men  'who  outlived 
that  terrible  journey  in  which  Arthur  perished. 
There  is  no  doubt  he  died  in  the  bush.  Forty 
of  them  did  so.  The  Governor  has  pushed  in 
quiry  even  beyond  probability.  There  is 
nothing  contrary  to  this  discovered.  Indeed 
this  letter  from  one  who  survived  declares  that 
Arthur  fell  down  at  his  side.  My  dear,  let  us 
bury  our  sorrow  forever." 

"  I  loved  him,  Robert  —  once." 

"  I  loved  him  also.  May  God  be  merciful 
to  him  !  To-day  let  us  forgive  the  sorrow  and 
shame  he  brought  us." 

To  have  shared  her  secret  with  this  sympa 
thetic  friend  would  have  been  a  comfort  be 
yond  words  to  Martha  Pennington,  but  then 
the  result  could  not  be  contemplated.  So  she 
accepted  what  was  told  her,  and  Robert  Pen 
nington  wondered  at  the  queer  perversity  of 
women.  He  had  thought  she  would  have  at 
least  uttered  a  fervent  "Thank  God  !"  that  she 
might  perhaps  have  asked  some  questions,  or 
wished  to  read  the  letter  which  described  her 


*3*  PEET  of  CLAY. 

husband's  death.  But  she  had  taken  the  news 
of  her  release  without  any  signs  of  gratitude. 
There  had  been  even  a  tone  of  reproach  in  the 
unlooked-for  assertion,  "  I  loved  him,  Robert — 
once."  Surely,  he  thought,  a  woman  under 
any  circumstances  is  an  unknown  quantity. 

This  thought  of  woman's  uncertainty  and  in 
scrutability  forced  itself  on  his  consciousness 
again  as  he  sat  with  his  nephew  on  the  night 
of  the  marriage  day.  The  pained  tension  of 
Mrs.  Pennington's  face  during  its  early  hours 
had  alarmed  him.  He  had  feared  every  mo 
ment  that  Death  would  come  to  the  marriage 
feast,  and  he  dreaded  the  hour  in  which 
mother  and  daughter  must  part.  But  the 
parting  was  over,  the  daughter  had  gone  away 
for  ever  from  her  home,  and  the  mother  was 
almost  cheerful.  Surely  women  were  past 
finding  out. 

He  made  this  decision  and  looked  up  at  his 
nephew.  The  young  man  sat  opposite  him 
thoughtfully  smoking.  Robert  Pennington 
regarded  his  handsome  face  with  pleasure,  and 
felt  grateful  for  his  silence.  Some  young  men 
would  have  tried  to  entertain  him,  would  have 
bored  him  with  questions,  and  compelled  him 


THE   SWORD   OF  DAMOCLES.  233 

to  talk  when  he  wished  to  think.  George  had 
bided  his  time,  and  it  is  such  trifles  as  these 
that  lead  the  heart  into  the  most  decided  pref 
erences.  He  leaned  forward  and  touched  his 
nephew's  hand,  while  his  face  brightened  and 
softened  in  every  line  : 

"  George,  we  have  been  forgetting  you.  Har 
riet  has  usurped  every  thought  lately,  now  let 
us  talk.  What  about  the  Indian  question  ?" 

It  was  the  subject  occupying  George's  mind 
at  the  moment.  He  had  been  wondering  how 
to  bring  on  its  discussion.  For  his  feelings 
and  desires  had  changed  since  Bella's  rejection 
of  his  unworthy  offer.  If  Bella  had  been  will 
ing  to  go  with  him,  it  would  have  been  the 
pleasantest  and  wisest  solution  of  a  doubtful 
relationship.  Situations  not  permissible  in 
English  society  might  obtain  a  kind  of  obliv 
ion  there.  Besides,  the  strangeness  and  dis 
tance  would  be  a  protection  against  the  inter 
ference  of  Bella's  passionate  kinsmen.  But 
now  there  was  no  necessity  to  fear  their 
anger,  why  should  he  go  into  danger  and 
privation,  when  the  situation  offered  him  no 
equivalent  ? 

This  train  of   thought  in  all  its  bearings  was 


234  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

familiar  to  him.  His  uncle's  question  was  ex 
pected,  he  was  prepared  to  answer  it. 

"  I  am  very  uncertain  about  the  Indian  ques 
tion,  sir,  and  when  one  is  uncertain  I  have  al 
ways  heard  it  is  best  to  stand  still." 

"  Your  mother  is  very  sick." 

"  Very." 

"  Her  days  are  evidently  numbered.  Do 
you  think  she  ought  to  be  left  alone  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  cruel  to  leave  her  alone." 

"  Then  stay  with  her,  George,  make  her 
last  hours  happy  ones.  When  she  passes  be 
yond  human  love,  come  to  me.  At  the  longest 
it  will  be  but  a  few  weeks,  you  will  spare  so 
much  of  your  life  to  brighten  hers  ?  " 

"Of  course  I  will." 

"  Then  there  is  no  more  to  be  said  at  pres 
ent." 

This  decision  precisely  suited  George.  He 
could  not  bear  to  quite  relinquish  every  hope 
of  recovering  himself  with  Bella,  and  he  be 
lieved  that  when  her  health  was  restored,  and 
the  spring  weather  tempted  her  to  resume  her 
usual  out-of-door  habits,  he  would  find  some 
opportunity  to  plead  his  cause  and  obtain  her 
forgiveness. 


THE   SWORD   OF  DAMOCLES.  23$ 

Apart  from  this  hope,  other  things  made  him 
quite  willing  to  accept  a  few  weeks'  absolute 
retirement.  He  was  not  without  resources  for 
such  a  life.  He  could  make  intimates  of 
books.  He  loved  the  sea.  He  enjoyed  in  a 
selfish  way  that  satisfaction  which  comes  from 
being  kind  to  others.  As  a  matter  of  personal 
comfort,  he  liked  to  be  on  good  terms  with 
himself.  Then  his  relations  with  Kitty  Din- 
woodie  and  the  garrison  were  just  a  little 
strained  and  chilled.  He  could  not  bear  to  re 
sign  the  popular  favor  he  had  enjoyed,  and  he 
hoped  that  his  filial  devotion  would  put  out  of 
memory  that  whisper,  that  supposition,  of  some 
thing  dishonorable,  which  had  made  his  name 
less  pleasant  and  frequent  on  the  lips  of  many 
who  had  been  used  to  speak  it  with  admira 
tion. 

After  Robert  Pennington's  departure,  the 
house  soon  fell  into  a  certain  quiet  order,  which 
George  approved.  For  in  a  few  days  he  hit 
upon  a  means  of  employment  which  comforted 
him  amply  for  all  his  disappointments  which 
made  the  longest  hours  short,  and  rendered 
him  indifferent  to  the  opinion  of  the  outside 
world :  he  began  to  write  a  book  of  poems.  In 


236  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

searching  for  rhymes  he  found  a  happiness  only 
known  to  poets.  Unfinished  stanzas  went  out 
to  walk  with  him.  Rhythmic  effects  answered 
the  sweep  of  his  oars.  Bella  was  no  longer  a 
subject  for  mortifying  and  painful  reflection,  she 
furnished  him  with  material.  He  embalmed 
her  beauty  in  sonnets,  and  her  faithlessness 
and  scornful  coldness  lost  their  sting,  as  soon 
as  he  began  searching  his  brains  and  his  diction 
ary  for  rhymes  to  them. 

These  literary  efforts,  really  very  fair  ones, 
appeared  to  Mrs.  Pennington  to  possess  won 
derful  merit.  Many  of  them  brought  tears  to 
her  eyes,  and  the  poor  lady  went  gently  down 
to  the  grave  soothed  by  the  musical  syllables 
representing  to  her  a  side  of  her  son's  nature 
which  might  have  the  power  to  elevate  the 
whole.  She  encouraged  him  with  heartfelt 
sympathy  and  admiration,  and  he  rewarded 
her  with  an  affectionate  companionship  of 
which  neither  wearied.  For  George  read  his 
own  writings  to  her  with  feeling  and  enthusiasm 
and  Mrs.  Pennington  listened  with  an  attention 
that  never  flagged,  and  a  pride  which  expressed 
itself  in  unstinted  predictions  of  future  great 
ness. 


THE   SWORD  OF  DAMOCLES,  237 

Partly  as  a  relaxation,  partly  as  a  stimulant 
to  thought,  George  walked  much  on  the  sea 
shore,  or  if  the  weather  were  propitious  pad 
dled  about  the  gray  inlets,  or  even  ventured  a 
short  distance  beyond  the  line  of  smooth 
water.  Early  in  January  there  were  a  few 
days  of  exceptional  warmth  and  beauty,  and 
on  one  of  them  he  walked  down  Glen  Mellish 
to  his  old  trysting-place  with  Bella.  A  kind 
of  sentimental  sorrow,  not  by  any  means 
painful,  prompted  him  to  renew  impressions 
already  wearing  dim.  He  was  speculating  on 
the  number  of  lines  necessary  to  fill  a  certain 
page,  as  he  approached  the  big  boulder  on 
which  he  had  been  used  to  sit  with  Bella.  It 
was  already  appropriated.  A  man  was  waiting 
there,  and  he  had  a  most  uncomfortable  twinge 
of  jealousy  for  a  moment. 

He  approached  with  a  manner  even  a  little 
defiant,  but  when  the  stranger  turned  his  face 
he  was  inclined  to  smile  at  his  ready  suspi 
cions.  It  was  the  man  whom  he  had  once 
warned  at  midnight,  the  man  with  those 
strange  haunting  eyes  which  he  had  never 
quite  forgotten.  His  cigar  was  just  finished, 
and  he  rose  up  and  flung  the  remnant  away  as 


238  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

George  saluted  him  with  that  courtly  upward 
movement  of  the  hand  which  his  military 
training  had  taught  him. 

The  father  looked  at  his  son  with  eyes  of 
fathomless  feeling.  Their  long,  sad  gaze 
troubled  George  beyond  his  understanding, 
and  when  his  greeting  was  answered  with  one 
of  equal  grace  and  courtesy,  the  young  man 
instantly  obeyed  the  mysterious  attraction 
which  this  stranger  had  over  him. 

"  Take  a  fresh  cigar,  sir,"  he  said  presently, 
and  he  offered  him  his  case. 

Then  they  began  to  walk  slowly  up  and 
down  the  bit  of  brown,  level  turf,  and  before 
George  was  well  aware  he  was  talking  very 
freely  to  his  strange  companion  of  his  own  life 
and  its  surroundings.  And  at  the  moment  he 
did  not  think  it  strange  that  he  should  be  so 
familiar  with  them,  as  to  fall  sympathetically 
into  his  experiences  without  requiring  either 
explanations  or  facts. 

At  first  they  spoke-  of  Bella.  George  began 
to  describe  her  beauty.  The  older  man  knew 
her  well.  He  had  often  smoked  a  pipe  with 
Ruthie.  He  could  tell  George  all  about 
Bella's  illness.  He  had  even  sat  with  the 


THE  SWORD   OF  DAMOCLES.  239 

family  through  the  long  sad  nights  when  her 
life  had  been  in  the  balance.  He  had  spoken 
with  Bella  not  two  hours  gone.  He  had  come 
far  closer  to  the  Clucas  family  than  ever 
George  had  been  permitted  to  do. 

"Tell  me  how  Bella  looks,  sir,"  said  George. 
He  still  spoke  with  a  little  of  the  pride  of  pro 
prietorship  in  his  tone.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
said,  "  Tell  me  how  my  Bella  looks." 

"  She  is  not  so  handsome  as  she  was ;  but 
she  is  a  good  girl.  You  have  had  love's 
young  dream,  and  awakened  from  it.  Take  an 
old  man's  advice,  sir,  don't  renew  the  experi 
ence." 

"  I  shall  never  find  another  girl  so  beautiful 
and  so  affectionate." 

"  She  is  not  your  mate.  I  am  no  simpleton. 
I  know  something  of  women.  Will  you  tell 
me  why  you  quarrelled  with  Bella." 

George  had  no  objections  to  talk.  Some 
men  lack  all  reticence  about  their  amours. 
They  are  not  ashamed  of  the  snubs  they  re 
ceive,  they  are  even  proud  of  their  infidelities. 
His  father  listened  patiently  and  observingly  ; 
George  was  showing  him  his  whole  heart.  He 
led  him  into  little  by-ways  of  conversation,  he 


240  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

induced  such  a  feeling  of  confidence  in  his 
sympathy,  that  the  young  man  did  not  hesitate 
to  declare  that  hitherto  he  had  mismanaged 
his  life,  and  been  something  like  a  fool. 

"  You  have  been  in  love.  Some  men  are 
naturally  fools,  they  are  double  fools  in  love." 

"  Still  I  must  say  that,  among  all  the  women 
I  have  met,  Bella  was  the  sweetest  and 
best." 

"  The  best  is  only  best  in  its  season,  the 
season  for  Bella  is  past." 

"You  think,  then,  that  there  is  no  hope 
of  a  reconciliation  ?  " 

"  Why  should  you  want  one  ?  If  I  had  in 
sulted  a  woman — " 

"Insulted!     Sir!" 

"  Let  us  be  frank  and  we  shall  be  friends.  I 
fell  in  love  with  you  that  night  you  struck  a 
match  to  tell  me  the  time,  and  then  took  a 
kindly  thought  about  my  life.  It  is  so  many, 
many  years  since  any  one  cared  whether  I 
lived  or  died,  since  any  one  wanted  me  to 
live,  that  your  warning  made  my  heart  trem 
ble.  An  angel  speaking  could  not  have  affect 
ed  me  more.  I  have  remained  here  solely  for 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  you.  Can't  you  bear 


THE   SWORD   OF  DAMOCLES.  241 

the  truth  from  me  ?  You  will  never  have  a 
better  friend." 

George  turned  his  face  to  the  speaker  with  a 
blush  of  pleasure  dyeing  it  rosy.  He  was  very 
sensitive  to  the  flattery  of  women,  but  to  have 
a  man  gray  and  seamed  with  the  storms  of  life 
say  such  loving  words  to  him,  touched  the 
young  fellow  almost  to  tears. 

"  Thank  you.  I  think  it  would  be  better  to 
throw  away  good  money  than  such  kindness 
as  you  offer.  You  look  as  if  you  had  seen  the 
world  and  known  men.  and  women  ;  say  what 
you  like  to  me." 

"  I  will  tell  you  the  truth  always.  I  will 
share  your  troubles  and  fence  them  with  my 
own.  No,  we  need  not  shake  hands,  it  is 
mostly  an  empty  form." 

"  Have  you  been  here  ever  since  that 
night  ?  " 

"Yes.  There  is  a  little  cottage  near  Scar 
lett,  the  widow  Sulby's.  I  live  there." 

"You  must  be  very  lonely." 

"  I  am  not  without  education.  It  is  the 
brainless  who  seek  companionship  and  amuse 
ment  at  any  cost.  If  a  man  can  think,  and 
dares  to  think,  he  can  animate  the  dreariest 


242  fEET  OF  CLAY. 

solitude.  I  have  heard  that  you  write  poetry. 
The  glen  and  the  gaery  and  the  sea  must  all 
have  spoken  to  you.  I  should  like  to  hear 
what  they  have  said.  We  may  gossip  about 
nature  and  do  no  harm." 

No  proposal  could  so  easily  and  so  com 
pletely  have  won  George's  heart.  He  recited 
some  of  the  most  ambitious  of  his  sonnets, 
and  the  elder  man  was  much  impressed  with 
their  excellence.  For  at  that  day  general 
education  had  not  developed  the  faculty  of 
musical  syllables,  and  the  man  who  could 
write  both  rhyme  and  reason  was  held  as  a 
superior  kind  of  mortal 

"You  are  a  second  Byron!  Give  your 
poems  to  the  world,  and  it  will  say  so." 

"  I  doubt  it." 

"  I  would  not  use  the  word,  it  is  unlucky. 
Doubt  is  misfortune,  it  dogs  the  man  who 
dares  not  meet  his  fate.  I  have  seen  this, 
that  they  who  are  forever  doubting,  fall  to  the 
very  wretchedness  they  fear." 

"You  seem  at  once  so  wise  and  so  unhappy. 
I  cannot  understand." 

"  When  I  was  young,  sir,  I  sowed  what 
are  called  wild  oats.  The  devil  harvests 


THE   SWORD    OF  DAMOCLES.  243 

that  crop,  and  the  devil's  corn  all  goes  to 
bran." 

George  became  very  thoughtful,  and  the  con 
versation  ceased.  But  the  companionship  of 
men  accepts  silence  as  well  as  speech.  They 
do  not  feel  that  they  must  chatter  to  avoid 
offence.  They  recognize  the  advantage  of 
supplementing  confidence  with  thought.  On 
the  gaery  they  stood  still  a  moment  and 
looked  around  over  the  brown  desolate  earth 
and  the  gray  blue  sea,  where,  toward  the  cen 
tre  of  the  watery  circle,  a  fishing-boat  was 
lunging  heavily  as  the  deliberate  rollers  came 
shoreward. 

"We  shall  have  a  chill  easterly  waft  after 
this  warm  breeze,"  said  the  elder  man.  "  The 
wind  will  come  in  a  moment,  and  the  sea  will 
spring  up  like  magic  into  a  short  nasty 
'  lipper.'  Good-morning,  sir.  You  have  given 
me  a  happy  hour." 

He  walked  away  with  the  words,  and  George 
stood  a  moment  to  look  after  him.  He  had 
spoken  of  a  happy  hour,  but  his  voice  left 
behind  an  echo  of  untranslatable  sadness. 
"What  is  it?  What  is  it?"  he  asked;  and 
then  he  went  into  his  mother's  presence  and 


244  F££r  OF  CLAY. 

began  to  tell  her  of  the  new  friend  he  had 
found,  the  strange  man  who  loved  him  be 
cause  he  had  been  human  enough  to  point  out 
a  danger  in  his  path.  And  he  did  not  notice 
the  terror  and  amazement  in  her  eyes,  nor  the 
anxious  tones  in  which  she  asked  question 
after  question  about  the  man's  appearance. 

"  Handsome  ?  No,  he  is  not,  and  he  looks 
as  if  the  world  had  kicked  him  from  pole  to 
pole.  But  one  feels  that  he  is  a  gentleman, 
that  he  is  well  born  and  well  educated.  I 
cannot  make  you  understand,  his  actions  and 
his  words  suggest  perpetual  incongruities." 

"  Yet  you  call  him  a  gentleman  ?  " 

"  He  has  the  air  of  one  ;  that  ease  of  man 
ner  which  is  as  free  from  familiarity  as  from 
awkwardness.  It  is  not  a  thing  acquired,  a 
man  has  it,  or  he  has  it  not,  and  yet,  as  I 
have  said,  there  are  perpetual  incongruities. 
I  cannot  explain.  He  was  most  enthusiastic 
about  my  poems  ;  there  is  no  doubt  that  he  is 
highly  cultured." 

"  I  must  try  and  see  him  some  day,  when  I 
am  able.  In  the  mean  time,  I  would  not  trust 
him  too  far.  He  may  be,  you  cannot  tell 
what  he  may  be.  I  will  rest  a  little  now." 


THE  SWORD   OF  DAMOCLES.  24$ 

Left  by  herself,  she  sat  perfectly  motionless. 
Well-disciplined  women  take  the  blows  of  cir 
cumstance  without  outcry.  Corroding  anx 
iety,  hidden  terror,  fatal  discoveries  made  in 
the  natures  of  those  she  loved,  she  could  but 
silently  endure  them. 

"  I  am  so  helpless,"  she  whispered.  Then 
looking  out  to  sea,  her  long  gaze  caught  a 
boat  coming  swiftly  towards  the  land.  She 
watched  the  man  steering,  and  the  man  row 
ing,  and  a  smile  spread  over  her  face.  "  We 
do  but  row,  we  are  steered  by  a  hand  mighty 
as  it  is  mysterious."  She  seemed  to  see, 
through  the  gloom  and  dull  storm  surrounding 
her,  this  hand  advancing  out  of  the  darkness. 
Tossing  upon  the  open  sea  -of  sorrow,  she  felt 
serene  in  the  conviction  that  it  was  able  to 
direct  and  to  preserve.  She  began  to  perceive 
the  shores  of  that  land  of  light  everywhere 
called  blessed. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

LOVE     AND     DEATH. 

"  After  the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day 

The  starr}'  calm  of  night, — 
After  the  rough  and  toilsome  way, 

A  sleep  in  the  robe  of  white. 
Are  they  dreaming,  the  sleepers  pale  and  still, 

For  their  faces  are  rapt  and  calm, 
As  though  they  were  treading  the  holy  hill, 

And  hearing  the  angels'  psalm  ? 
The  things  that  were  hid  from  waking  eyes 

Shine  clear  to  the  veiled  sight ; 
In  the  last  deep  sleep  the  pilgrims  rise 

To  walk  on  the  shores  of  light." 

TTAPPINESS,  like  truth,  has  a  variety  of 
1  X  aspects.  Many  young  men  would  have 
found  the  quiet,  monotonous  existence  which 
satisfied  George  Pennington  for  the  next  six 
weeks  intolerable.  But  its  compensations 
were  sufficient  for  him.  He  was  delighted 
with  himself.  He  looked  upon  his  nearly  fin 
ished  volume  with  admiration.  Matt  Kellish, 
by  which  name  only  he  knew  his  father,  stim 
ulated  him  both  by  admiration  and  dissent. 
246 


LOVE  AND  DEATH.  247 

"  The  poems  are  wonderful,"  he  would  say, 
"  but  after  all,  Captain,  of  what  use  are  they  ?  " 

"  A  work  of  genius  exists  for  its  own  sake, 
Mr.  Kellish.  It  is  not  intended  for  use. 
Compare  that  beech  with  the  plum-tree  be 
side  it.  The  beauty  of  the  beech  is  its  war 
rant;  the  crippled,  stunted  plum-tree  would 
have  no  place  in  the  garden  but  for  its  purple 
drupes." 

Nor  was  the  production  of  a  work  of  genius 
George's  only  warrant  for  the  satisfaction 
which  made  his  life  very  tolerable  during  this 
time.  He  was  regaining  the  popularity  he 
had  lost.  Whatever  his  wrong  to  Bella  Clucas 
had  been,  it  was  a  past  wrong.  Bella  had  re 
covered  her  health  and  beauty,  and  did  not 
seem  unhappy,  and  the  young  man's  devo 
tion  to  his  sick  mother  was  a  daily  and  evi 
dent  act  of  self-denying  love,  an  act  that  ap 
pealed  to  the  women  of  every  household. 

And  it  is  the  women,  after  all,  that  regulate 
the  social  standing  of  men.  Those  who  rode 
out  to  ask  after  the  dying  lady  were  captiva 
ted  by  her  son's  tender  regard  for  her.  The 
mothers  praised  and  encouraged  him,  the 
daughters  gave  him  approving  glances  from 


248  F£ET  OF  CLAY. 

kind  and  beautiful  eyes.  And  there  really  are 
women  who  enjoy  speaking  well  of  others. 
George  could  feel  the  good  report  of  himself 
in  the  grip  of  the  men's  hands,  and  hear  it  in 
the  tones  of  their  voices. 

He  began  to  think  better  of  himself  than  he 
had  done  since  Bella's  scornful  and  indignant 
estimate  of  him.  If  girls  of  Kitty  Din- 
woodie's  rank  could  overlook  his  fault,  surely 
Bella  had  also  forgiven.  Of  course  it  had 
been  a  personal  wound  in  Bella's  case,  and 
only  a  general  affront  to  sex,  in  every  other 
case  ;  but  Bella  loved  him.  That  would  bal 
ance  all  differences. 

As  the  spring  opened  he  began  to  haunt 
Glen  Hellish  and  the  seashore  nearest  the 
Clucas  cottage.  But  he  never  saw  the  girl. 
She  is  avoiding  me,  therefore  she  still  feels 
my  influence.  This  conviction  gave  him  per 
sistence,  and  one  afternoon  he  resolved  to 
make  a  decided  effort  to  speak  to  her. 

It  was  an  unusual  hour  for  him  to  be  abroad, 
and  if  Bella  still  thought  of  possibilities  re 
garding  him,  she  would  remember  this.  He 
was  full  of  hope,  though  it  was  a  day  of  cold, 
neutral  dimness.  The  trees  had  a  voice  of 


LOVE   AND  DEATH.  249 

complaint,  and  the  curlews  whistled  overhead 
like  messengers  of  evil.  Even  to  the  horizon 
the  sea  was  gray,  and  the  few  ships  on  it 
looked  forlorn  and  cowering.  But  George 
went  swiftly  down  the  glen,  and  was  so  light- 
hearted  that  a  Highland  Scot  would  certainly 
have  predicted  disappointment  for  him. 

As  he  made  the  last  turn  his  heart  beat 
wildly.  Bella  was  standing  in  the  door. 
Mary  sat  upon  the  step  at  the  threshold.  He 
drew  back,  and  from  the  shadow  of  the  rock 
watched  the  girl  who  had  been  his  dream  by 
day  and  night,  the  inspirer  of  his  poems,  and 
the  troubler  of  his  conscience.  She  had  re 
covered  all  her  beauty,  with  it  the  something 
more  that  a  sharp  experience  nobly  borne  con 
fers.  An  air  of  melancholy  softened  the  viv 
idness  of  her  color.  It  was  like  the  tender 
haze  of  autumn  over  the  perfected  year.  She 
had  grown  taller  and  more  slender.  Her 
bright  hair  lay  loosely  around  her  brow  and 
nestled  in  short  rings  and  curls  behind  her 
ears  and  at  the  back  of  her  neck.  Some  fish 
ing  nets  lay  at  her  feet,  she  had  perhaps  been 
mending  them  before  she  stood  up. 

As    soon    as    George    made    a    movement 


250  FEE T  OF  CLAY. 

toward  her  she  saw  it.  He  came  forward  ea 
gerly  with  a  smile  parting  his  lips  and  bright 
ening  his  eyes,  but  he  was  aware  in  a  moment 
that  there  was  no  pleasant  response.  Bella 
was  watching  him  with  the  passionless  calm 
of  a  soul  that  was  superior  to  his  influence. 
There  was  neither  love  nor  hate  in  her  silent, 
gracious  figure,  neither  love  nor  hate  in  her 
cold,  innocent  face. 

As  soon  as  she  understood  that  he  really 
meant  to  address  her,  she  turned  slowly  into 
the  cottage,  and  Mary  rose  and  stood  in  the 
door.  It  was  not  easy  to  meet  the  offended 
mother.  An  inexpressible  reproach  was  in 
her  dark  eyes,  she  was  on  guard,  on  the  defen 
sive,  ready  to  accuse  or  to  challenge. 

*'  Good-afternoon,  Mrs.  Clucas.  Can  I  come 
in  and  talk  half  an  hour  with  you  ?  I  have  a 
great  deal  to  explain." 

"  The  barefaced  you  are,  Captain,  and  good- 
afternoon  indeed!  A  middlin'  bad  afternoon 
with  the  like  of  you  comin'  into  it.  And  as  for 
splainin',  useless,  useless,  and  not  needed,  thank 
God,  all  clear  villainy  enough,  and  no  mistake !  " 

"  One  would  think  I  had  committed  some 
great  crime  in  telling  Bella  that — " 


LOVE  AND  DEATH.  251 

"  Great  crime  !  Bless  me,  no  !  The  spirit 
for  a  great  crime  is  not  in  you.  Chut !  A 
sneakin'  sin  against  a  poor  girl ;  the  like  of 
that  for  you,  a  sneakin'  sin,  Captain,  and  no 
use  in  it !  The  fool  you  were,  it's  the  abslit 
truth,  the  fool  you  were  !  " 

"  Well,  Mary,  I  know  it  now." 

"  Mary  !  not  from  your  lips.  Mrs.  Clucas  is 
too  much.  The  good  name  itself  seems  false 
from  them." 

"  Can  I  see  Bella  a  few  moments?" 

"  Aw,  then,  you  cannot." 

"  Mrs.  Clucas,  I  am  very  sorry.  I  have  suf 
fered  a  great  deal." 

"  I'm  not  regardin'  what  you  say.  Sufferin' ! 
Not  you,  nor  like  to." 

"  For  the  sake  of  old  times." 

"  Clean  forgot  are  them.  Lizzen !  Come 
here  no  more,  lettin'  on  to  be  sufferin'.  My 
daughter,  God  bless  her,  is  over  the  likin'  for 
you,  and  there's  others  that  are  dislikin'  you, 
desperate,  and  not  tryin'  to  get  over  that. 
They'll  be  havin'  it  out  with  you  some  day  or 
night,  by  the  Lord  they  will!  '  Splainin','  in 
deed  !  'Splain  to  them,  and  you'll  find  out 
the  meanin'  of  the  word,  azackly." 


252  FEET  OF  CLAY, 

She  spoke  promptly  and  positively,  but 
without  passion,  and  the  set  austerity  of  her 
face  made  him  understand,  even  more  than 
her  words,  the  uselessness  of  further  parley. 
He  lifted  his  hat  and  went  towards  the  sea. 
Mary  waited  at  her  pest  long  enough  to  satisfy 
her  own  idea  of  a  calm  and  deliberate  victory, 
then  she  re-entered  the  cottage  and  shut  the 
door. 

Bella  stood  at  the  table,  one  folded  hand 
pressed  tightly  on  it  for  support.  Her  eyes 
were  dropped  to  hide  the  tears  that  dimmed 
them.  "Bella!  Dear  me!  Is  it  frettin' you 
are  ?  And  for  the  like  of  him  ?  Very  tryin' 
of  you,  amazin'.  I  wouldn't  do  it." 

"Aw  then,  mother,  take  patience  a  minute. 
I've  been  to  a  buryin' ;  youth  and  love,  a  bit 
of  my  soul  and  life,  gone  forever.  Tears  may 
drop  into  an  open  grave,  surely.  It  isn't  you 
that  would  be  hard  where  God  is  easy,  pityin* 
the  broken  heart,  and  like  Him  for  all." 

"  Not  me,  nor  in  me,  to  be  hard,  ma  chree. 
Go  to  yourself  a  bit.  You're  droopin'-like? 
and  no  wondher.  Give  way  to  sorrow  and  it 
will  mayve  give  way  to  comfort";  and  then, 
as  Bella  passed  within  the  shelter  of  the  closed 


LOVE  AND  DEATH.  253 

door,  "  Poor  thing !  A  bird  will  cry  with  a 
broken  wing,  and  why  not  a  poor  girl  with  a 
wounded  heart,  and  yet,  no  good  to  fret,  no 
good  at  all." 

Muttering  the  words,  Mary  went  to  the  door 
and  set  it  open  again  and  looked  towards  the 
sea.  "I  wonder  if  he  took  the  boat?  He'll 
have  his  hands  full  if  he  did,  or  I'm  not 
knowin'  anythin'.  Ruthie  and  Gale  are  comin' 
home  the  land  way,  very  comfible  that,  for 
I'm  not  likin'  the  looks  of  the  sea  and  sky, 
and  the  gulls  are  cryin'  that  sharp  and  peevish 
my  skin  creeps  lizzenin'  them.  I  wonder  if  he 
took  the  boat,  he'll  be  lost  if  he  has :  ill-doers 
find  ill  ends,  and  deservin*.  Aw  bless  me! 
What  am  I  sayin'  ?  Tis  a  pity  of  him,  any 
way.  And  as  for  the  bad  thought  in  my 
heart,  unawares,  but  there  for  all,  Maker  of 
sea  and  land,  forgive  it ! " 

If  her  eyes  had  been  clearer  she  might  have 
seen  George  pulling  as  a  man  pulls  against  a 
storm  of  passionate  chagrin  and  wounded  self- 
appreciation.  When  he  left  the  cottage  he 
went  to  the  beach.  A  boat  was  there  which 

p 

he  often  used,  a  common  row-boat  painted 
Jead  color.  It  was  the  universal  tint  except 


*$4  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

where  the  glistening  brown  weeds  draped  the 
black  rocks.  The  heights  above  were  coifed 
in  gray  fog.  A  low  gray  sky  threw  down 
leaden  shadows.  On  the  sea  not  a  gleam,  it 
was  like  a  huge  black  abyss;  even  the  very 
foam  looked  dull. 

So  the  whole  surroundings  were  in  sympathy 
with  the  young  man's  mood.  Without  care  or 
thought  of  the  weather,  he  put  off  into  the 
gray  trouble  of  the  ocean.  And  for  some  time 
the  act  of  forcing  his  way  through  the  dark 
mass  surrounding  him  had  a  tranquillizing 
effect  upon  his  wounded  feelings.  Failure  in 
one  direction  was  compensated  for  by  a  sense 
of  power  in  another.  Though  the  heaving  of 
the  sea  was  constantly  growing  more  portent 
ous,  he  did  not  seriously  consider  its  condition 
with  regard  to  himself,  until  he  had  passed  the 
Stack,  and  was  facing  the  dangerous  coast 
beyond  Pool-vash. 

Then  he  rested  on  his  oars  and  looked 
around  him.  The  tide  had  turned  and  was 
pouring  shoreward  in  a  sombre  stream.  George 
knew  well  the  sympathy  between  the  sea  and 
the  atmosphere,  and  he  was  not  astonished 
that  the  wind  should  rise  with  the  tide.  Wind  ! 


LOVE  AND  DEATH.  255 

In  ten  minutes  it  was  coming  in  immense 
sweeps,  lifting  the  water  as  it  came.  He  took 
off  his  coat  and  hat  and  bent  himself  to  the 
oars  with  all  his  might.  But  he  was  already 
wearied,  and  he  had  none  of  the  tough  staying 
power  of  the  practised  fishermen. 

He  felt  terrified  at  the  billows  which  tossed 
his  boat  like  a  shuttlecock  from  wave  to  wave. 
He  was  using  his  uttermost  strength,  but  mak 
ing  no  headway.  To  keep  out  of  the  current 
setting  with  irresistible  impetus  to  the  black, 
jagged  rocks  round  Scarlett  point,  was  his  only 
expectation.  And  this  effort  must  be  kept  up 
through  storm  and  darkness  until  the  ebb  of 
the  tide,  if  it  was  possible.  But  his  heart 
sank,  and  without  any  conscious  intention  his 
lips  began  to  utter  those  short,  pitiful  cries  for 
supernatural  help,  which  are  the  prayers  of 
human  extremity. 

So  far  the  storm  had  been  gathering  its 
forces  in  that  singular  silence  which  is  even 
more  alarming  than  the  wildest  bluster.  The 
gloomy  stillness  was  full  of  appalling  mystery. 
George  looked  anxiously  round,  and  as  he  did 
so  he  perceived  a  large  boat  in  which  there 
were  two  men.  He  knew  them  at  once,  they 


256  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

were  Ruthie  and  Gale  Clucas,  but  humiliating 
as  it  was  to  call  upon  them,  he  did  not  hesitate 
to  do  so.  His  shrill  cry  for  help  broke  Ruthie's 
remark  in  two : 

"  God  bless  me,  that's  the  Captain  ! " 

"It  is." 

"  Callin'  us,  and  wantin'  help — " 

"Let  him  call.'* 

"  The  wind  risin',  and  the  tide,  he'll  be  at 
the  bottom  in  half  an  hour." 

"  Bella !  He  would  have  sent  her  deeper 
than  the  sea-bottom,  if  he  could." 

"Help!     Help!" 

"A  man  axin1  help  at  sea;  we  are  seamen, 
Gale." 

"  Let  him  sink  or  swim,  as  God  wills." 

"  Mayve  then  God  sent  us  to  help  him. 
Just  your  own  stubbornness,  Gale,  we  came 
this  way  at  all." 

"  He's  the  worst  enemy  we  ever  had  ;  the 
devil  or  the  sea  take  him.  I'm  not  regardin'." 

"  Keep  quiet.  I'm  not  likin'  the  hound  any 
better  than  yourself,  not  I,  but  we've  orders 
about  our  enemy,  lovin*  him,  eh?  I  can't  do 
that,  God  Almighty  bein'  a  father,  wouldn' 
expec'  me,  but  savin'  him  is  different.  He'll 


LOVE  AND  DEATH.  257 

be  lookin'  for  that  much  from  you  and   me, 

Gale." 

•'  Who  ?  " 

"  God  Almighty,  that's  who ;  savin'  life, 
yandher  life,  that's  what  He'll  be  lookin'  for. 
Come,  my  lad,  work  the  oars,  we  both  know 
what  we  must  do." 

During  this  conversation  George,  fearing 
they  did  not  hear  his  despairing  cry,  fastened 
his  white  handkerchief  to  the  end  of  one  of  his 
oars,  and  began  to  wave  it  to  and  fro.  The 
white  glimmer  through  the  gray  caught 
Ruthie's  and  Gale's  eyes  at  the  same  moment. 
It  was  a  sign  of  distress  that  appealed  to  their 
instincts  and  traditions  as  no  words  could  do. 
Ruthie  set  his  lips  tight  and  nodded  authorita 
tively  at  Gale,  and  Gale  answered  by  a  passion 
ate  bending  to  the  oars  which  signified  at  once 
his  reluctance  and  his  acquiescence. 

Before  they  reached  the  helpless  man  a  great 
wave  tossed  the  boat  so  violently  that  in  try 
ing  to  balance  himself  he  let  the  oar  with  its 
white  entreaty  fall  into  the  sea.  In  a  moment 
it  was  beyond  his  reach,  and  he  was  then  prac 
tically  at  the  mercy  of  the  storm. 

Ruthie    and    Gale    looked    at    each    other. 


258  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

They  had  wished  him  dead  many  a  time. 
Now  they  had  only  to  pursue  their  own  road 
and  they  would  have  their  wish.  No  one, 
with  such  a  sky  above  and  such  a  sea  below, 
could  blame  them  for  considering  their  own 
lives  first.  They  could  avenge  all  Bella's 
wrongs  by  simply  not  doing  good  ;  there  would 
be  no  necessity  for  them  to  commit  an  evil 
act.  The  thought  was  instantaneously  in  both 
hearts,  and  George's  cry  of  "Help!"  smote 
on  their  ears  at  the  same  moment. 

There  was  a  pause,  an  almost  imperceptible 
delay,  and  Gale  said  sullenly :  "  It  will  be 
middlin'  hard  to  save  ourselves.  Look  to  the 
aesthward  ;  not  our  fault." 

"  No  excuse ;  pull  hard,  a  cruel  heart  is  as 
bad  as  a  bloody  hand.  Aw  bless  me,  we  must 
all  live,  or  all  drown !  I  stand  to  that." 

In  a  few  minutes  they  had  flung  a  rope  to 
George,  and  a  little  skilful  management  soon 
brought  the  boats  into  a  contact  so  close  that 
it  was  practicable  for  the  young  man  to  leap 
into  the  larger  one.  He  was  by  this  time  not 
only  drenched,  but  also  faint  from  fear  and 
exhaustion,  and  he  sank  down  in  a  condition 
which  made  Ruthie  push  the  water-bottle 


LOVE  AND  DEATH.  «59 

towards  him  with  the  point  of  his  foot.  There 
happened  to  be  some  extra  oilskins  in  the 
boat,  and  in  the  same  manner  he  was  told  that 
he  might  use  them. 

No  one  spoke  a  word.  No  one  waited  a 
moment  to  watch  the  deserted  boat  tossed 
from  wave  to  wave,  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
frightful  rocks  which  rose  out  of  the  white 
foam,  jagged  and  black  and  full  of  certain 
death.  Like  a  giant  Gale  pulled  with  might 
and  main  for  the  little  bay  at  Glen  Hellish. 
Ruthie  was  steering,  George,  weary,  abashed, 
and  half  resentful,  sat  in  the  bottom  of  the 
boat.  He  would  have  taken  the  extra  oars, 
but  Gale,  by  a  gesture  fierce  and  imperative, 
had  signified  his  refusal  to  accept  assistance. 
It  was  no  time  for  speech  or  disputing,  their 
lives  were  depending  on  their  reaching  home 
before  the  gathering  storm  broke  in  its  fury. 

As  it  was,  when  they  came  to  the  landing 
there  was  a  wild  buffeting  through  a  smother 
of  foam.  The  spray  cut  their  faces,  the  lash 
ing  feathers  on  the  tops  of  the  waves  half 
blinded  them.  They  had  to  leave  the  boat 
unfastened,  and  wade  some  distance  in  the 
surf,  for  the  wind  was  coming  on  tremendous, 


260  FEE 7'  OF  CLAY. 

and  the  hurly-burly  of  that  narrow  sea  made 
itself  felt  in  every  tiny  inlet.  George  fell 
twice,  and  but  for  Ruthie's  hand  silently  ex, 
tended  would  have  perished  even  when  his  feet 
had  touched  the  beach. 

At  the  edge  of  the  water  the  three  men 
stood  to  draw  breath,  and  George  said  :  "  You 
have  saved  my  life.  I  am  grateful  to  you." 

Gale  was  as  one  that  heard  not,  he  had 
already  turned  his  feet  homeward.  Ruthie 
stayed  his  footsteps  a  moment  to  answer: 

"  Only  God  Almighty's  grace.  But  for  His 
name,  you'd  have  been  outside  His  mercy." 

So  they  left  him  alone  in  the  gathering 
gloom,  and  he  felt  their  desertion  more  keenly 
than  he  would  have  felt  hard  words  or  even 
blows.  Gale  in  the  act  of  saving  his  life  had 
refused  to  speak  to  him  or  to  lift  the  oars  with 
him.  Ruthie  had  only  broken  the  cold,  unre, 
lenting  silence  to  assure  him  that  they  had 
saved  him  for  the  love  of  God,  and  not  from 
any  regard  for  himself. 

As  with  painful  steps  he  took  his  way  up 
Glen  Hellish  he  felt  this  utter  want  of  human 
kindness,  and  was  angry  and  mortified  by  it. 
As  he  approached  the  cottage  the  fire  and 


LOVE  AND  DEATH.  261 

candle  light  shone  through  the  windows,  and 
he  could  see  Ruthie  and  Gale  sitting  upon  the 
hearth,  and  the  women  ministering  to  their 
wants.  But  the  door  was  closed.  If  they 
thought  of  him,  it  was  only  to  shut  him  out. 

He  made  what  haste  he  could,  but  his  boots 
and  clothing  were  wet  and  heavy,  he  was  cold 
and  stiff  and  weary,  and  he  was  wonderfully 
depressed,  for  the  utter  contempt  of  the  fishers 
for  the  life  they  had  deigned  to  save  was  like 
a  physical  blow  to  a  man  so  greedy  of  appreci 
ation  and  so  fond  of  being  admired.  Before 
he  got  to  the  head  of  the  Glen  the  rain  came 
down  in  torrents  ;  it  fell  on  the  rocks  around 
with  a  keen  lashing  sound  that  blended  awfully 
with  the  strange  noises  of  the  wind  through 
the  funnel-like  Glen  and  the  solemn  roar  of 
the  distant  ocean. 

It  was  nearly  dark  :  only  a  wan  shadow  of 
light  remained  in  the  western  sky.  He  had 
never  been  disciplined  by  physical  suffering 
and  discomfort,  it  cowed  him  as  a  flogging 
cowes  a  child.  When  he  reached  the  boulder 
which  had  been  his  trysting-place  with  Bella 
he  was  forced  to  rest.  In  a  vague  way  he  re 
membered  sitting  there  on  fine  moonlight 


262  FEET  OF  CLAY, 

nights  with  his  arm  around  the  girl.  The 
memory  roused  in  him  nothing  but  anger.  It 
stung  him  worse  than  the  lashing  rain,  and  he 
made  an  effort  to  rise  and  go  forward.  His 
strength  was  gone.  A  feeling  of  despair  and 
exhaustion  made  his  ears  ring  inward,  and  his 
senses  began  to  fail. 

At  this  moment  he  perceived  a  light  ap 
proaching  in  a  rapid  and  wavering  manner.  It 
was  the  light  of  a  lantern,  and  must  therefore 
be  in  the  hand  of  some  human  being.  He 
called  with  the  frantic  voice  of  one  on  the 
verge  of  death  and  despair,  and  the  cry  was 
instantly  answered  by  a  cheerful  "Hello!" 
In  a  few  moments  he  felt  strong  arms  around 
him,  and  knew  that  Matt  Kellish  was  giving 
him  brandy,  and  half-crying  as  he  soothed  and 
encouraged  him  with  words  of  sympathy  and 
hope. 

"  I  saw  you  go  away  this  afternoon,  rowing 
into  the  storm  like  a  madman,  and  I  did  not 
see  you  come  back.  I  thought  perhaps  you 
had  landed  somewhere  and  walked  home. 
But  John  Quayle's  anxious  face  at  the  door 
told  me  you  were  still  absent,  and  I  got 
brandy  and  a  light,  and  was  just  going  to  call 


LOVE  AND  DEATH.  263 

Ruthie  and  Gale  and  any  other  men  I  could 
find,  and  search  for  you.  I  am  glad  no  one 
but  myself  has  any  part  of  the  pleasure  of 
finding  and  helping  you." 

The  kind  words,  the  stimulating  spirit,  the 
sense  of  protection  and  help  restored  George 
to  himself.  He  was  soon  able  to  proceed,  and 
in  twenty  minutes  he  stood  at  his  own  door. 
He  was  much  excited,  talked  loudly,  and 
laughed  almost  hysterically.  Kellish  on  the 
contrary  was  silent,  almost  stern,  but  his  face 
lighted  up  strangely  when  the  exuberant 
youth  flung  his  arms  around  his  neck,  and 
vowed,  as  he  owed  his  life  to  him,  that  he 
would  love  him  as  long  as  it  lasted. 

He  resigned  him  to  Quayle  with  a  sigh.  "  I 
found  him  fainting,"  he  said,  "quite  over 
come,  and  I  have  given  him  brandy.  It  has 
taken  possession  of  him,  you  see  ";  then  as  he 
turned  away,  "  I  have  a  good  mind  to  go  and 
see  Clucas  and  tell  him  what  I  think  of  shut 
ting  a  man  out  in  such  a  storm.  It  was  Christ 
himself  standing  knocking  at  his  door  this 
night,  if  he  had  had  ears  to  hear  him." 

But  Kellish  judged  a  little  too  hardly. 
Ruthie  believed  George  to  be  quite  capable  of 


264  FEET  OP  CLAY. 

walking  to  his  own  home,  and  even  thought 
the  exercise  would  be  of  service  to  him. 
Gauging  the  young  man's  endurance  by  his 
own,  he  considered  the  danger  to  life  past 
when  he  had  set  him  upon  dry  land.  Even 
Bella,  who  heard  the  story  of  his  rescue  in 
silence,  had  no  suspicion  of  any  unkindness  in 
leaving  the  saved  man  to  find  his  way  up  Glen 
Mellish  alone.  Yet  when  the  storm  broke  so 
early  Ruthie  was  moved  enough  to  notice  the 
subject,  and  to  wonder  if  the  Captain  was  able 
for  it  "  bein'  tired,  and  \vaeke  with  fear  and 
the  like." 

"  Tired  "  echoed  Gale,  "  what  with  then  ?  He 
sat  in  the  boat  bottom  all  the  way  home." 

"  Easy !  easy,  Gale  !  Be  fair  even  to  the 
like  of  him.  He  offered  to  take  oars." 

"Aw  then,  do  you  think  I  would  keep 
stroke  with  him  ?  I'd  rather  break  him  across 
my  knees  than  row  with  him,  that's  a  fac'. 
Aw,  the  coward,  the  puny  coward,  white  as 
milk  he  was,  and  tremlin'  like  a  baby !  " 

"  Not  used  with  the  sea,  as  you  are,  Gale. 
You  was  in  a  storm  afore  five  years  old. 
The  sea  was  your  second  mother,  washed 
you,  rocked  you,  played  with  you,  fed  you, 


LOVE  AND  DEATi:,  265 

taught  you,  made  a  fine  strong  man  of  you  for 
any  weather.  That's  you,  Gale  !  " 

And  Gale  looked  up  at  his  mother  with  his 
bright  blue  eyes  full  of  pleasure.  He  was  one 
of  those  lovable  young  men  who  grow 
sweeter  under  their  mother's  smile,  who  are 
proud  of  their  mother's  approval,  and  would 
think  shame  of  themselves  if  they  wronged 
her  trust,  or  wounded  her  love. 

This  incident  made  a  decided  break  in  the 
life  of  George  Pennington.  Though  he  quite 
recovered  from  the  physical  effects  of  the  storm 
in  a  few  days,  in  other  respects  it  cut  him 
away  from  his  previous  interests.  The  stimu 
lus  to  mental  effort  was  gone.  He  could  no 
longer  idealize  his  beautiful  fisher-maiden.  His 
anger  at  Ruthie  and  Gale  extended  to  Bella. 
He  remembered  Mary's  plain  words  with  ex 
treme  offence.  In  fact,  he  was  disillusioned. 
A  sudden  disgust  of  all  his  surroundings  made 
his  days  intolerably  long,  and  he  had  rather 
dropped  his  former  companions  during  his 
poetic  enthusiasm  ;  he  fancied  that  such  associ 
ations  took  him  into  a  lower  mental  atmos 
phere  than  was  favorable  to  his  work. 

Mrs.   Pennington  perceived   the  change   at 


266  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

once.  Nothing  in  nature  is  so  sensitive  to  at 
mospheric  change,  as  love  is  to  the  mood  of 
the  loved  one.  She  reproached  herself  for 
being  so  long  in  dying.  When  the  oil  is 
exhausted,  why  does  not  the  lamp  go  out? 
But  the  circumstance  caused  her  to  make  an 
effort  she  had  long  wished  to  make.  She  sent 
George  to  Douglas  with  some  jewelry  which 
she  intended  to  give  to  Harriet,  and  she  par 
ticularly  requested  him  to  wait  there  until  the 
articles  had  been  thoroughly  repaired  and  ren 
ovated.  "  It  may  take  you  three  or  four  days, 
George,  but  the  change  will  do  you  good,  and 
the  Ratcliffes  will  be  glad  to  see  you." 

The  young  man  was  ready  enough  for  the 
change.  He  bade  his  mother  good-bye  in  a 
mood  of  pleasant  excitement.  He  did  not  see 
the  sign  traced  by  a  hand  that  writes  but  once, 
the  sign  that  says,  "  Thy  hours  are  numbered." 
He  went  away  laughing,  full  of  his  commis 
sions  and  his  anticipations. 

An  hour  after  his  departure  Mrs.  Penning- 
ton  called  a  lad  that  was  in  the  household  and 
sent  him  into  Castletown  for  medicine;  "and 
drop  these  letters  in  the  post-office,  Stephen." 
She  saw  him  put  them  in  his  pocket  and  leave 


LOVE  AND  DEATH.  267 

the  house  without  remark,  and  she  trusted 
that  the  indifference  of  childhood  would  pre 
vent  his  examining  them ;  and  it  is  a  fact 
that  those  who  trust  to  what  we  blindly  call 
accident  are  seldom  disappointed.  It  is  our 
well-laid  plans  that  go  agley.  Stephen  posted 
the  letters,  and  never  noticed,  or  thought  of 
noticing,  their  directions,  though  one  was  for 
the  hand  of  Mr.  Matt  Kellish. 

That  afternoon  he  received  it.  For  some 
moments  he  was  like  one  stupefied.  He  was 
afraid  to  open  it,  and  did  not  do  so  until  he 
reached  the  privacy  of  his  room.  The  con 
tents  gave  a  wrench  to  his  heart  that  was  a 
physical  pain.  He  knew,  when  he  read  them, 
that  death  had  come  as  a  peacemaker: 

"  Life  is  nearly  over,  and  I  have  something 
to  say  to  you.  To-morrow  morning  call  for 
George.  They  will  tell  you  he  is  in  Douglas. 
Then  say  that  you  must  see  me.  Come  as 
soon  after  ten  as  possible.  I  grow  weaker  as 
the  day  goes  by.  M.  P." 

One  smiles  at  the  efforts  of  a  lover  to  look 
well  in  the  eyes  of  his  mistress,  but  there  is  an 
inexpressible  pathos  in  such  efforts  when  it  is 
a  husband  whom  time,  and  evil  fortune,  and 


268  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

too  late  repentance,  have  made  physically  un 
desirable.  Many  a  year  had  passed  since 
Arthur  Permington  dressed  so  carefully,  or 
looked  so  anxiously  in  his  glass  for  advice  as 
to  the  best  results.  Insensibly  he  had  been 
improved  by  his  contact  with  George,  and  his 
observation  of  the  men  in  the  little  garrison 
town,  but  he  was  still  one  on  whom  sin  and 
sorrow  had  left  indelible  and  dreadful  marks. 

He  was  at  the  house  precisely  at  ten,  and 
saw  John  Quayle  standing  at  the  door  luxuri 
ously  inhaling  the  scent  of  the  sea  and  the 
earthy  smell  of  the  freshly  turned  garden. 
They  were  accustomed  to  speak  to  each  other, 
and  when  Quayle  said,  "  It's  the  spring  again, 
thank  God,  Mr.  Kellish  !  "  the  words,  few  as 
they  were,  had  a  tone  of  liking  in  them. 

"  You  are  looking  like  the  spring,  Mr. 
Quayle,  with  the  violet  in  your  buttonhole 
and  the  fresh  color  in  your  cheeks,  and  your 
eyes  like  a  bit  of  the  sky.  Where  is  the  Cap 
tain  ?  I  want  to  see  him  most  particularly." 

"  Aw  then,  the  Lord  only  knows.  I  wouldn' 
be  so  bold  as  to  say.  for  he  went  to  Doolish 
yesterday  mornin'." 

"  Then,  Mr.  Quayle,  you  must  do  your  best 


LOVE   AND  DEATH.  269 

with  the 'lady,  for  see  her  I  must.  If  you'll 
say  it  is  extraordinary  business  and  requiring 
to  be  looked  after  at  once,  of  course  she'll  take 
your  advice.  And  to  be  plain  with  you,  Mr. 
Quayle,  it  is  important,  very  important  ";  and 
as  the  words  fell  with  a  persuasive  ring  into 
the  ear  and  a  golden  ring  into  the  hand  of  Mr. 
Quayle,  there  was  no  difficulty. 

In  five  minutes  Arthur  Pennington  stood 
within  the  door  of  his  dying  wife's  room.  On 
entering  she  motioned  him  to  turn  the  key, 
and  as  he  completed  the  act  her  eyes  met  his 
with  a  look  in  them  which  carried  him  back, 
back,  back,  to  the  days  of  his  sinless  boyhood 
and  his  happy  love.  He  trembled  under  it, 
and  his  suffering  face  seemed  to  ask  her  not  to 
trouble  these  depths  of  memory. 

"Arthur!  my  dear  Arthur!  " 

"  Oh,  my  love  !  Have  you  forgiven  me,  at 
last?"  He  stood  still,  half-way  between  the 
door  and  her  chair,  and  stretched  out  his 
arms  with  an  irresistible  entreaty.  She  feebly 
raised  her  own ;  her  smile  answered  him. 
He  was  at  her  knees.  He  was  clasping  her 
hands.  Her  face  was  laid  against  his,  their 
tears  mingled  on  her  white  cheek. 


270  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

With  broken  words  and  broken  kisses  they 
made  their  peace,  they  renewed  their  vows, 
for  eternity  now  ;  they  buried  for  ever,  every 
memory  of  their  wrong  and  suffering.  The 
mystery  of  that  solemn  communion  is  not  trans 
latable,  if  it  were,  it  could  only  be  put  into 
words  by  a  kind  of  sacrilege.  For  many  rea 
sons,  however,  the  interview  could  not  last 
long.  She  made  him  sit  by  her  side,  she  laid 
her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  she  whispered  the 
words  in  his  ear  and  on  his  lips  that  she 
was  spending  her  last  breath  to  say. 

"  Take  care  of  George." 

"  I  love  him !  I  love  him  better  than  life. 
If  it  were  necessary  I  would  give  my  life  for 
him." 

"  Listen !  He  is  weak  where  you  were 
weak.  He  was  tempted  once,  and  the  temp 
tation  was  too  great  for  him." 

"  Poor  fellow  !    I  will  love  him  all  the  more." 

"  I  leave  him  to  you — a  sacred  charge." 

"  As  sacred  as  the  holy  bread." 

"Harriet?" 

"  Trouble  not  about  her.  I  have  been  at 
Sutcliffe,  soon  after  the  marriage.  She  has 
all  she  desires.  She  is  happy." 


LOVE  AND  DEATH.  271 

"Arthur,  dear,  dear  Arthur!  You  have 
promised.  We  shall  meet  again — beyond." 

"  Oh,  my  love  ;  if  you  should  not  know  me  !  " 

"  But  I  shall.  Heaven  is  not  full  of  impal 
pable  shadows.  Will  God  give  us  some  un 
known  being  in  the  place  of  the  one  whose 
image  we  have  faithfully  kept  through  many 
sorrowful  years  ?  It  is  impossible.  He  will 
not  disappoint  us.  We  shall  meet  again." 

They  clasped  hands  with  the  promise.  For 
a  moment  Arthur  Pennington's  face  regained 
beauty,  for  his  soul  reigned  supreme :  it  was 
overflowing  with  love,  with  the  sweetness  of 
pardon,  with  immortal  hope,  and  it  transfigured 
the  blemished  and  unlovely  mask.  Death  and 
love  have  revelations  such  as  these. 

A  moment  more  and  parting  was  over.  He 
had  kissed  her  cheek,  and  blessed  her  softly  in 
the  name  of  God,  and  prayed  that  she  might 
go  in  peace.  Then  he  went  so  quietly  that  no 
one  knew  when  he  left  the  house.  Down  to 
the  seaside  he  took  his  sorrow,  and  the  wind 
carried  his  moaning  away  on  its  wings.  For 
he  hardly  knew  what  he  said,  only  that  in  his 
agony  he  kept  helplessly  repeating  God's  great 
name. 


272  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

Hour  after  hour  the  dying  woman  lay  quiet. 
Her  last  duty  was  done.  Her  servants  came 
in  and  out,  but  she  had  no  service  to  ask  from 
them.  The  afternoon  wore  calmly  away,  and 
the  sun  sank  with  a  majestic  melancholy  below 
the  waves.  As  she  watched  it,  Death  came  to 
her,  came  like  a  gentle  night  falling  over  the 
stress  of  daytime,  reverend  and  lovable.  With 
winged  feet  at  last  he  came,  touching  her  very 
tenderly.  The  servants,  entering  one  by  one, 
saw  the  ineffable  serenity  and  the  dignity  which 
the  last  moment  had  left,  the  seal  of  peace 
after  sorrow  vanquished,  after  labor  ended. 

It  was  her  desire  that  her  body  should  be 
taken  to  the  little  border  village  from  which 
she  came.  She  wished  to  lie  with  the  fathers 
and  mothers  of  her  own  lineage,  on  the  windy 
hillside  where  she  had  grown  to  childhood,  and 
where  her  only  brother  still  lived  in  wealthy 
simplicity  among  his  flocks  and  shepherds. 
Her  wish  was  carefully  complied  with.  She 
lay  for  one  night  in  her  girlhood's  chamber, 
the  next  day  they  buried  her  in  a  small  church 
yard,  where  nearly  all  the  stones  bore  the  name 
of  Brougham. 

Jt  was  a  chill,  rainy  day,  and  every  one  shiv- 


LOVE  AND  DEATH.  273 

ered  in  the  lonely  place,  though  there  was  the 
promise  of  spring  in  the  budding  trees,  and  in 
the  blackbirds  bugling  finely  among  them.  The 
promise  of  spring  in  nature,  and  the  promise 
of  eternal  life  in  the  blessed  words  at  the  grave 
mouth.  But  none  were  able  to  accept  them. 
They  went  drearily  back  to  Brougham  Hall, 
and  gathered  together  as  their  hearts  led  them. 
George  talked  over  the  new  life  before  him 
with  his  uncle,  Robert  Pennington.  Harriet 
and  her  husband  arranged  their  journey  home. 
Mr.  Brougham  smoked  his  pipe  until  the  even 
ing  brought  his  guests  together. 

Then  the  blazing  fires  and  the  twinkling 
chandeliers  filled  the  big  room  with  warmth 
and  light.  Meat  and  wine,  and  face  answering 
face,  brought  comfort.  With  the  unforgotten 
dead  in  their  hearts,  they  began  to  plan  for  the 
living  and  talk  of  the  future.  The  solemnity 
of  a  life  concluded  cannot  interfere  with  the 
lives  going  on.  Our  ordinary  existence,  our 
repasts  at  stated  hours,  the  decorous  garments 
necessary,  the  proprieties  to  be  observed — ah 
me,  grief  is  a  flower  more  delicate  and  more 
prompt  to  fade  than  happiness. 

Even  that    night   there  were  in  Brougham 


274  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

Hall  smiles,  and  hopes,  and  plans  for  the  future. 
God  rescues  our  personality  from  the  tomb, 
but  we  leave  our  affections  there.  The  dead 
was  still  loved,  but  she  had  no  longer  any  part 
in  their  joys  and  anxieties.  George  was 
dreaming  of  his  future,  Harriet  of  her  home, 
Squire  Brougham  of  the  morrow's  market. 
But  out  in  the  dark  churchyard  a  man  knelt 
hour  after  hour  by  the  new-made  grave.  No 
one  knew  of  his  presence ;  no  one  heard  the 
sobs  which  blended  with  the  mournful  wind. 
He  was  alone  with  those  phantoms  which  de 
scend  upon  the  soul  of  the  mourner.  "  My  love ! 
My  love!  My  wife!  My  wife!"  so  he  called 
her,  until,  after  long  hours  of  misery,  suddenly 
he  found,  he  knew  not  what,  penetrating  sweet 
ness.  It  sheltered  itself  in  the  recesses  of  his 
heart,  it  filled  him  with  rest  from  head  to  feet. 
It  was  just  at  dawning,  and  he  rose  up  and 
went  away  comforted,  whispering  her  name  as 
he  went. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

YOUTH  ON  THE  PROW. 

"  And  in  the  morn  and  liquid  dew  of  youth 
Contagious  blastments  are  most  imminent." 

"  Time  the  shuttle  drives,  but  you 
Give  to  every  thread  its  hue  ; 
And  elect  your  destiny." 

"  It  is  the  heart  and  not  the  brain 
That  to  the  highest  doth  attain." 

A  MONTH  after  the  death  of  Mrs.  Penning- 
ton  the  pretty  island  home  was  closed. 
The  rooms  through  which  the  dying  lady  had 
wandered  with  prayers  on  her  lips,  the  one 
which  had  been  to  her  the  gate  of  heaven,  all 
were  dismantled  and  left  desolate.  Only  Mr. 
Kellish  in  the  dim  walked  slowly  about  the 
shady  garden,  or  sat  under  the  trees  and 
thought  of  her  who  was  treading  the  hills  of 
God. 

George    hurried    through    the    business   as 
quickly  as  possible.     Now  that  his  mother  and 
sister  were  gone  from  the  home  nest,  he  felt 
275 


276  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

little  reluctance  in  tearing  it  to  pieces.  Con 
sidering  his  position  and  personal  circum 
stances  he  had  made  few  friends,  and  the  near 
presence  of  the  Clucas  family  was  a  constant 
irritation.  But  for  the  companionship  of  Mr. 
Kellish  and  the  kindness  of  the  Dinwoodie 
family  he  would  have  felt  strangely  desolate. 
For  his  passing  devotion  to  the  muse,  and  his 
reputation  as  a  scholar  and  a  man  fond  of 
books,  had  seriously  injured  him  with  what 
is  usually  called  society,  a  class  who  think 
their  thoughts  second-hand,  and  who  do  not 
even  respect  those  who  do  their  thinking  for 
them.  That  little  affair  with  the  fisher-girl 
could  have  been  got  over ;  every  young  man  had 
a  secret  apology  for  his  temptation,  every 
woman  in  her  heart  threw  the  blame  upon 
Bella.  But  what  can  society  do  with  a  man 
who  writes,  who  has  original  ideas,  who  finds 
books  more  interesting  than  the  babble  and 
gossip  of  the  mess  and  the  ball-room  ? 

George  understood  the  position,  and  yet  was 
inclined  at  times  to  complain  of  it.  Indeed  to 
Mr.  Kellish  he  complained  very  bitterly,  for  in 
these  lonely  days  their  friendship  ripened 
rapidly.  They  spent  most  of  them  together, 


YOUTH  ON  THE   PROW.  277 

and  then  talked  and  speculated  half  the  night 
away.  One  evening  some  civil  snub  from  a 
young  lieutenant  annoyed  George  very  much, 
and  its  discussion  with  his  friend  was  the 
natural  outcome  of  the  affair. 

"  What  can  you  expect,  Captain  ?  You 
think  differently  from  these  people,  you  act  in 
a  way  which  is  not  sanctioned  by  their  use  and 
wont.  You  are  in  a  fact  a  nonconformist  in 
your  own  set,  and  if  a  man  goes  against  the 
opinions  and  prejudices  of  the  people  he  lives 
among,  he  is  just  as  sure  to  incur  opposition 
and  pain  as  if  he  ran  his  head  against  a  wall. 
You  could  not  even  take  mustard  with  your 
mutton,  or  eat  your  peas  with  a  knife,  and  be 
innocent." 

"  But  what  becomes  of  our  freedom  of  opin 
ion  ?  Is  a  man  to  be  sent  to  Coventry  who 
dares  to  walk  out  of  the  groove  of  his  set?" 

"  The  man  who  dares  to  do  it  never  yet 
trod  on  roses,  and,  till  human  nature  changes, 
never  will.  But  there  are  generally  some 
blessed  stragglers  as  well  as  himself.  Have 
you  read  an  old-fashioned  book  called  The 
Pilgrim's  Progress?  Yes?  Well,  you  know 
what  those  nonconformists  suffered  in  Vanity 


278  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

Fair,  and  you  remember  that  in  the  loneliest 
bit  of  the  road,  when  the  great  Pilgrim  was 
very  disconsolate,  he  heard  the  voice  of  a 
man  on  the  same  road  full  of  hope  and 
courage.  Come,  now,  you  haven't  been  quite 
deserted." 

"  No,  indeed  !  You  are  always  sympathetic, 
and  so  is  Miss  Dinwoodie." 

"And  how  sweet,  and  pretty,  and  sensible  she 
is!  I  think  you  can  afford  to  let  the  crowd 
pass  you  by,  the  stragglers  from  it  may  prove 
the  best  company." 

George  smiled  pleasantly,  perhaps  to  his 
own  thoughts ;  he  was  recalling  the  image  of 
Kitty  as  he  had  seen  it  frequently  during  these 
days.  For  his  own  home  being  in  great  con 
fusion,  he  had  been  a  constant  guest  at  the 
Dinwoodies,  and  Kitty  had  revealed  herself  in 
all  those  womanly  ways  which  captivate  the 
heart  of  any  man  worth  loving.  If  girls  would 
only  believe  it,  not  in  the  hunting-field,  not 
in  the  ball-room,  or  the  tennis-court,  not  in  any 
of  the  brilliant  ways  of  pleasure,  are  they  the 
loveliest.  The  charming  woman  is  most  of  all 
charming  when  she  smiles  upon  her  lover 
from  the  home  hearth,  and  when  she  is  mak- 


YOUTH  ON    THE  PROW.  279 

ing  sunshine  and  comfort  in  all  the  blessed 
ways  of  household  life  and  duty. 

And  as  Kitty  went  up  and  down  in  her 
pretty  chintz  frock,  with  its  dimity  ruffling 
and  bows  of  pink  ribbon,  up  and  down  assist 
ing  her  mother,  or  reading  to  her  father,  al 
ways  busy,  always  good-tempered,  George 
could  not  help  admiration  growing  into  love; 
could  not  help  making  comparisons  which 
caused  him  many  a  time  to  blush  with  a  hot 
anger  at  the  faults  and  foolishness  of  the  past. 
But  however  much  he  now  knew  himself  to  be 
in  love  with  Kitty,  he  was  conscious  that  she 
would  resent  at  present  any  outspoken  confes 
sion.  That  affair  of  Bella  Clucas  was  still  un- 
forgotten,  he  could  feel  it ;  and  there  was 
also  a  certain  reticence  due  to  the  memory  gf 
his  mother,  a  reticence  which  he  divined 
Kitty  would  expect  him  to  observe.  But  love 
is  not  dependent  upon  words  for  its  assurance. 
George  did  not  speak,  but  Kitty  understood 
that  he  loved  her.  Kitty  made  no  sign,  but 
George  knew  that  he  had  her  heart's  first 
affection. 

It  was  not  without  a  pang  that  he  took  his 
last  walk  through  the  emptied  rooms,  and 


280  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

turned  the  key  in  the  closed  door.  Youth 
can  afford  these  luxuries  of  sorrow.  He 
dropped  a  few  genuine  tears,  and  wrote  a  few 
exquisite  lines  of  lament  and  farewell.  Then 
with  his  heart  thrilling  with  emotion,  and  his 
handsome  eyes  misty  with  tears,  he  took 
Kitty  for  a  last  walk  before  their  parting. 
They  said  a  thousand  sweet  things  to  each 
other  by  their  silences,  by  their  melancholy, 
by  their  veiled  glances  of  affection,  by  their 
delays,  and  their  soft  monosyllables. 

Some  turn  of  fate  brought  them  face  to  face 
with  Bella.  Lace  Corrin  walked  at  her  side, 
and  at  that  moment  he  looked  precisely  what 
he  was  said  to  be,  the  handsomest  lad  in  the 
boats.  He  had  a  pair  of  oars  over  his  shoul- 
4er,  but  as  he  stooped  his  bright  head  and 
eager  face  towards  Bella's,  he  was  the  very 
embodiment  of  love  ;  handsome,  graceful,  irre 
sistible.  Bella  in  appearance  was  his  ideal 
mate.  His  blue  fisher  guernsey  was  matched 
by  her  dress  of  blue  flannel.  With  its  plain 
bodice  and  close-fitting  sleeves,  guernsey  and 
dress  alike  revealed  the  fine  proportions  of 
their  wearers  ;  and  Lace's  bit  of  white  collar 
and  the  gay  colored  kerchief  knotted  around 


YOUTH  av   THE  PROW,  281 

his  neck  were  almost  repeated  in  the  tiny 
ruffle  and  pink  ribbon  at  Bella's  throat. 

They  stood  in  the  glory  of  the  setting  sun, 
and  its  rose  and  purple  gave  to  their  young, 
vivid  beauty  a  splendor  that  recalled  the 
fishermen  of  the  Saronic  Gulf,  and  the  fair, 
proud  Corinthian  girls  who  loved  them.  A 
sudden  turn  brought  them  directly  in  front  of 
George  and  Kitty.  In  passing  each  other  Bella 
would  be  next  to  George,  would  be  so  close 
to  him  that  they  could  clasp  hands.  Retreat 
for  both  was  possible,  but  neither  thought  of 
it.  Lace  simply  stepped  to  the  other  side  of 
Bella,  and  thus  put  himself  between  his  love 
and  his  rival.  The  act  brought  the  men  to 
gether,  and  Lace  turned  on  George  a  face  that 
was  in  itself  a  provocation  and  a  challenge. 
He  stood  directly  in  the  onward  path  of 
George,  and  George  had  no  mind  to  move  a 
step  out  of  it,  to  avoid  the  offensive  man. 
Such  a  situation  became  in  a  moment  unen 
durable,  and  George,  touching  his  cap  with  one 
finger,  said  haughtily : 

"Mr.  Corrin,  if  you  have  no  respect  for 
your  companion,  be  so  good  as  to  respect  the 
daughter  of  Major  Dinwoodie," 


282  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

Before  Lace  could  possibly  answer,  Bella 
had  retaken  her  position,  and  had  compelled 
Lace  to  advance  in  his  own  direction  by  one  of 
those  authoritative  movements  rapid  as  light 
and  imperative  as  fate.  Yet  in  this  flashing 
act  of  supremacy  she  found  the  opportunity 
to  dart  into  Kitty's  eyes  a  glance  appealing 
and  propitiatory,  a  glance  answered  by  a  simul 
taneous  movement  of  their  hands,  which  met 
for  a  second  of  time  across  the  breast  of  the 
man  who  had  been  dear  to  one,  and  was  now 
dear  to  the  other. 

Rapid  and  simple  as  Bella's  glance  and  act 
had  been,  Kitty  understood  them  in  all  their 
depth  and  fulness  of  meaning.  When  souls 
speak  to  each  other,  words  are  unnecessary, 
and  a  moment  of  time  is  sufficient.  On  Bel 
la's  part  there  had  been  a  perfect  act  of  renun 
ciation,  and  it  had  somehow  not  only  included 
an  entreaty  for  personal  consideration,  but  an 
assurance  of  her  good-will  and  good  wishes  for 
the  woman  whose  love  was  to  be  honored, 
where  her  own  hand  had  been  wronged  and 
dishonored.  There  are  women  capable  of  such 
acts  of  nobility ;  Bella  was  among  them. 

In  a  few  moments   the  painful  irritation  of 


YOUTH  ON  THE  PROW.  283 

the  meeting  wore  away  in  silence,  and  George, 
looking  anxiously  at  the  pretty  girl  by  his 
side,  said  : 

"  I  think  I  ought  to  confess  something  to 
you,  Miss  Kitty,  may  I  speak  to-night  ?  " 

"  Not  to-night.  Before  confession  there 
ought  to  be  plenty  of  time  for  reflection." 

"  Some  time  may  I  confess  ?  " 

"  Some  time,  yes." 

He.  took  her  hand,  and  they  walked  home  in 
the  gloaming  with  the  joy  of  promise  in  their 
hearts  ;  a  joy  unnamed  and  unanalyzed,  and 
all  the  sweeter  and  vaster  for  its  beautiful 
vagueness. 

George  went  away  early  in  the  morning, 
glad  to  leave  the  scene  of  so  much  mortifica 
tion  and  failure.  He  had  often  wondered  how 
he  would  feel  if  brought  suddenly  face  to  face 
with  Bella,  and  he  had  found  that  in  such  a 
crisis  he  had  hardly  thought  of  her.  All  his 
anxiety  had  been  about  his  own  position. 
The  girl's  great  beauty  had  lost  all  charm  for 
him.  He  could  find  defects  in  it,  where  there 
were  none.  He  could  congratulate  himself 
upon  the  failure  of  the  evil  scheme  which  had 
once  been  the  delightful  object  of  all  his 


284  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

thoughts.  He  could  realize  with  a  shiver  of 
dislike  what  a  burden  the  girl  would  have 
already  become  to  him.  But  it  did  not  enter 
his  mind  to  try  and  realize  what  the  position 
of  Bella  would  have  been,  had  not  her  soul 
been  purer  and  stronger  than  his  own. 

The  little  steamer,  King  Orry,  sailing  be 
tween  Douglas  and  Whitehaven,  landed  him 
at  the  latter  port  about  sunset.  He  under 
stood  that  Robert  Pennington's  carriage  would 
meet  him  there,  but  he  had  no  idea  as  to  his 
further  journey.  It  was  a  lovely  spring  even 
ing,  with  a  whole  horizon  full  of  blue  sleepy 
ocean,  seaward.  Landward,  there  was  a  quiet, 
aristocratic  town,  whose  peace  seemed  to  suf 
fer  a  kind  of  invasion  in  the  swaggering  tur 
moil  made  by  their  steamer,  entering  between 
the  two  fine  sea-walls. 

Ere  he  had  time  to  land,  George  saw  what 
he  had  been  very  certain  he  would  see,  a 
handsome  landau  with  servants  in  brown  and 
yellow  livery.  He  was  relieved  at  once  of  all 
responsibility:  "Squire  Pennington's  carriage, 
sir."  It  had  a  strange  sort  of  familiarity, 
and  the  air  of  the  servants  invested  him  with 
a  certain  proprietorship  in  it.  Their  ride 


YOUTH  ON   THE  PROW  285 

took  them  some  miles  beyond  the  wealthy 
old  town,  and  in  the  gloaming  they  entered  a 
park  whose  greenness  and  stillness  could  at 
that  hour  be  felt.  The  oaks  which  lined  the 
avenues,  or  made  coverts  for  the  deer  and  the 
birds,  had  been  growing  for  centuries.  It  was 
a  place  where  nature  in  a  great  measure  had 
had  her  will ;  and  such  places  straightway 
become  beautiful  and  peaceful. 

The  trees  rustled  and  looked  glad,  and  after 
a  two  miles'  drive  they  parted  to  the  right 
and  left,  and  showed  him  a  large  dwelling  on 
which  the  gray  twilight  fell  softer  than  sleep. 
There  were  lights  in  all  the  windows,  and 
the  wide  door  stood  open  and  revealed  the 
hall  in  a  blaze  of  welcome.  When  the 
carriage  stopped  before  it,  Robert  Penning- 
ton  advanced  and  took  his  nephew  by  both 
hands. 

"  This  is  the  young  squire,"  he  said.  "  This 
is  the  heir  of  Pennington  !  You  will  give  him 
your  love  and  service  ? "  He  had  turned  in 
speaking  so  as  to  face  the  men  and  women 
drawn  up  to  welcome  the  new-comer.  And  it 
was  impossible  for  a  heart  so  fond  of  affection 
as  George  Pennington's  was  not  to  be  moved 


286  FEET  OF   CLAY. 

by  the  ready  responses  and  the  sympathetic 
smiles  that  greeted  him. 

"  Thou  art  grown  bravely,  thou  art  far 
away  bonnier  than  I  thought  for!"  cried  one 
old  woman.  "  Ey,  but  thou  liked  me  well 
before  thou  could  say  so,  thou  did  that ! 
T'  squire  be  thanked  for  thy  home-bringing !  " 

And  George  knew  precisely  what  graceful 
thing  to  say  and  what  to  do  in  each  case  of 
remembrance.  Robert  Pennington  was  com 
pletely  satisfied  with  the  young  man,  he  was 
proud  of  the  object  of  his  love  and  generosity. 
Everything  had  been  arranged  for  his  comfort 
in  the  most  sumptuous  style.  It  was  evident 
that  in  thus  publicly  acknowledging  him  as 
his  heir  the  squire  determined  to  do  so  to  the 
utmost  extent  of  honor  and  favor.  And 
George  was  left  in  no  doubt  as  to  his  position. 
(After  dinner,  as  the  two  men  sat  talking  over 
the  business  relating  to  the  break-up  of  the 
home  in  the  Island,  the  elder  one  said  plainly  : 

"  George,  I  have  made  you  heir  of  Penning 
ton.  I  have  not  taken  this  step  without  long 
consideration.  I  shall  not  alter  my  intentions 
for  any  light  reason.  I  intend  you  to  have  the 
fullest  liberty.  Your  religious  convictions, 


YOUTH  ON   THE  PROW.  287 

your  matrimonial  intentions,  your  political 
views,  I  shall  not  interfere  with  any  further 
than  as  one  man  may  advise  another.  Our 
opinions  on  these  and  other  matters  may 
differ,  and  for  any  matter  of  opinion  I  shall 
not  change  my  intention  regarding  your  future. 
One  vice  may  prove  unpardonable  in  my 
sight:  I  mean  gambling,  either  on  the  turf 
or  at  the  table.  You  will  easily  find  other 
things  to  interest  you.  The  stables  are  full  of 
horses,  and  I  wish  you  to  join  the  hunt,  to 
take  your  share  generously  in  all  the  athletic 
games  which  belong  to  your  years  and  posi 
tion.  Here,  you  will  be  second  only  to  myself. 
In  London,  you  will  be  absolutely  your  own 
master." 

"  Then  you  wish  me  to  reside  partly  in 
London  ?" 

"  I  believe  in  alternations  of  life,  as  long  as  a 
man  is  able  to  enjoy  them.  There  comes  a 
time,  George,  when  we  like  our  days  of  the 
same  kind,  when  habit  reconciles  us  to  the  loss 
of  that  capacity  for  change  and  pleasure  which 
youth  enjoys;  but  until  then,  city  and  coun 
try,  drawing-room  and  hunting-field  enhance 
each  other's  charms.  They  make  the  same 


288  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

antithesis  as  that  transition  from  wish  to  ful 
filment,  and  fulfilment  to  wish,  which  is  the 
basis  of  so  much  of  what  we  call  happiness." 

"  Dear  uncle,  you  open  a  delightful  vista 
to  me." 

"  I  hope  so.  But  I  am  well  aware  men  don't 
live  in  such  vistas  without  money.  You  will 
find  at  Longman's,  Leadenhall  Street,  .£8000 
a  year  to  your  credit.  That  has  always  been 
the  heir's  allowance  from  the  estate.  No,  do 
not  thank  me.  I  understand  what  you  would 
say  far  better.  I  enjoy  the  giving  more  than 
you  enjoy  the  gift.  We  are  quits,  George." 

•'  I  will  deserve  your  kindness ;  that  will  be 
the  best  thanks." 

"  Precisely  ;  and  I  trust  you.  I  trust  you 
fully  ;  trust  your  honor  and  integrity  to  the 
uttermost.  I  will  listen  to  no  evil  words 
about  you.  Young  men  will  do  foolish  things, 
and  they  will  have  enemies  glad  to  repeat 
them.  Unless  you  are  your  own  accuser  I 
will  be  deaf  to  all  such  reports." 

"  If  accusation  is  deserved,  I  will  be  my  own 
accuser." 

"  My  dear  George,  those  are  wise  words. 
Come  to  me  in  any  strait,  I  love  you,  and 


You TII  o.v  THE  PROW.  2$$ 

except  in  regard  to  the  one  vice  I  have  speci 
fied  you  will  find  me  patient  and  generous. 
For  a  gambler  I  have  no  toleration ;  every  sin 
is  possible  to  a  man  who  can  throw  dice  with 
the  devil,  and  risk  time  and  eternity  upon  the 
speed  of  a  horse  or  the  turn  of  a  card." 

He  spoke  with  a  stern  passion,  so  entirely 
at  variance  with  his  usual  manner,  that  no 
answer  seemed  possible, .  and  perhaps  the 
emphatic  silence  which  followed  was  the  most 
forcible  application  of  the  words. 

George  Pennington  during  the  past  weeks 
had  made  many  plans  for  his  future.  His 
uncle's  letters  had  given  him  hopes  of  some 
permanent  good ;  perhaps  a  pleasant  govern 
ment  sinecure  ;  perhaps  a  military  commission 
equally  desirable.  He  had  even  contemplated 
the  study  of  the  law.  He  was  prepared  to 
take  the  first  road  through  life  that  offered, 
and  fight  with  all  its  difficulties.  This  splen 
dor  of  opportunity,  this  largess  of  love  and 
wealth  and  pleasure  so  freely  offered  !  He 
had  never  imagined  such  good  fortune,  for  the 
gifts  of  God  put  all  our  best  dreams  to  shame. 
And  George,  in  the  midst  of  the  luxurious 
comforts  of  his  own  apartments,  surveyed  his 


29°  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

wonderful  destiny  with  a  heart  full  of  the 
warmest  gratitude.  He  acknowledged  God 
the  giver.  He  made  the  noblest  resolutions 
for  his  future  conduct.  He  fully  intended  to 
keep  them.  For  the  man  wholly  scoundrel  or 
wholly  angel  dwells  elsewhere  than  on  earth. 
In  humanity  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a 
straight  line  or  an  unmixed  color. 

The  days  and  weeks  that  followed  were  full 
of  content  to  both  uncle  and  nephew.  George 
was  learning  the  extent  of  the  estate,  the 
names  and  qualities  of  the  tenants,  the  value 
of  every  farm,  the  methods  of  agriculture,  all 
the  delightful  routine  of  husbandry  without 
its  cares  and  labors. 

The  country  was  enchanting.  His  poetic 
nature  realized  its  beauties.  He  carried  in 
his  heart  the  silence  of  wood  and  fell,  and  the 
sylvan  charm  of  an  out-door  life.  In  the 
autumn  the  Earl  of  Lonsdale  filled  his  ad 
joining  castle  with  guests,  and  the  crack  of 
guns  and  shouts  of  the  hunters  were  heard 
among  the  stubble  and  in  the  young  planta 
tions  all  around.  George  was  a  speedy  favor 
ite.  He  ably  filled  the  place  in  field-sports 
which  his  uncle  had  Ions:  vacated. 


YOUTH  ON   THE  PROW.  29 1 

Even  the  gentlemen  spoke  highly  of  him. 
Robert  Pennington  had  thought  deeply  on  all 
public  subjects,  and  George  had  the  art  to 
clothe  his  uncle's  ideas  in  brilliant  language. 
The  earl  himself  listened  to  the  young  fellow 
with  half-shut  eyes  and  grave  reflections  as  to 
his  political  influence.  For  Lonsdale's  ideas 
of  men  were  not  haunted  by  time  or  death. 
He  recognized  them  as  whigs  or  tories.  His 
sole  conception  of  the  universe  was  a  political 
one.  In  the  winter,  when  they  were  both  in 
London,  he  resolved  to  see  more  of  George 
Pennington.  It  might  be  to  the  interest  of 
his  party  to  secure  so  brilliant  a  thinker  and 
speaker.  In  the  mean  time  he  watched  him 
closely,  for  this  nobleman  was  born  suspicious. 
If  he  heard  the  world  praising  anything  or 
any  one,  he  was  always  disposed  to  define  the 
object  of  its  idolatry  as  a  humbug. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  season  George  went 
to  London.  He  had  rooms  in  one  of  the  most 
fashionable  streets,  he  had  everything  that 
money  could  purchase  to  make  them  suitable 
for  a  young  man  of  his  pretensions.  Even  the 
proverbial  skeleton  was  in  his  case  promptly 
and  kindly  dismissed.  For  it  must  be  ad- 


292  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

mitted  that  the  thought  of  the  secret  which 
Lord  Penrith  held  was  a  shadow  in  his  sun 
shine.  He  had  not  feared  him  while  their 
paths  ran  so  far  apart.  But  now  that  they 
were  likely  to  meet  in  the  same  drawing-rooms 
and  sit  at  the  same  tables,  he  was  constantly 
asking  himself  how  Penrith  would  act. 

At  the  first  dinner  given  by  the  Earl  of 
Lonsdale  the  question  was  answered.  Penrith 
was  present,  but  the  dinner  was  a  large  polit 
ical  one,  and  in  the  crowd  George  did  not 
notice  the  friend  who  had  once  been  so  near 
to  his  soul.  Perhaps  it  was  fortunate,  for  the 
knowledge  of  his  presence  might  have  dashed 
the  charming  brilliancy  of  his  conversation. 
As  it  was,  Penrith  listened  with  his  old-time 
delight.  He  made  haste  to  see  him  when  the 
party  rose,  he  clasped  his  hand  with  the  linger 
ing  fervor  of  by-gone  days,  he  drew  him  gently 
into  the  seclusion  of  a  curtained  embrasure, 
and  said : 

"  My  dear  George,  I  want  to  speak  to  you  ; 
to  assure  you — there  was  a  piece  of  paper — 
you  remember?  I  want  you  to  feel  as  if  it 
had  never  been." 

"  I  cannot  feel  that.    Oh,  my  dear  friend,  I — " 


YOUTH  OX  THE  PROW.  293 

"Yes!  Yes!  Put  it  out  of  your  memory 
With  these  words  it  dies  out  of  mine.  Upon 
my  honor! " 

It  is  useless  to  say  that  George  was  much 
moved,  really  moved ;  that  Penrith  felt  his 
emotion,  that  their  silent  handclasp  was  a 
bond  which  George  knew  Penrith  would  never 
break.  Henceforward  they  were  friends,  not 
intimates  perhaps,  but  conscious  of  the  fidelity 
of  each  other's  hearts,  and  ready  at  any  hour 
to  prove  it. 

During  the  winter  he  published  his  poems. 
Literary  fame  brought  him  constant  offers 
of  literary  employment.  It  was  the  day  of 
Keepsakes  and  Albums  and  Souvenirs,  and 
every  separate  one  solicited  a  little  gem  for 
its  pages.  Squire  Pennington  laughed  at  all 
this  adulation  ;  perhaps  he  was  also  a  little 
proud  of  it,  but  the  old  earl  was  angry  and 
disappointed  in  his  political  protege1. 

"Nebulous  brilliance,"  he  said  tartly  and 
scornfully;  "stuff  that  dreams  are  made  of.  I 
am  disappointed.  The  young  man  lacks  defi 
nite  edge  to  his  intellectual  character." 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  wealth  of  acclaim 
George  lived  for  many  weeks  with  a  gay  satis- 


294  rEET  OF  CLAY. 

faction  which  lacked  nothing  of  completeness 
but  the  ability  to  bear  it  without  weariness. 
For  at  length  reaction  began.  The  same 
forms  of  adulation  grew  tiresome.  Thoughts 
uncalled  for  presented  themselves.  Con 
science,  which  had  not  been  troublesome,  be 
came  imperative.  He  thought  of  all  the  noble 
resolves  he  had  formed  ;  they  had  been  with 
out  substance  and  had  vanished  away.  He 
thought  of  Kitty  with  a  sense  of  remorse. 
He  had  sent  her  no  token  of  his  remembrance. 
Among  so  many  fair  women  he  had  forgotten 
the  claim  which  she  had  upon  him,  a  claim 
which  no  spoken  words  could  make  more  bind 
ing  on  his  manhood.  He  thought,  and  with  a 
singular  persistence,  of  the  strange  being  who 
had  saved  his  life  that  night  when  he  had  been 
abandoned  at  the  edge  of  the  storm  by 
Ruthie  and  Gale  Clucas,  who  had  become  so 
familiar  with  him,  and  to  whom  he  had  so 
often  opened  out  his  whole  soul.  Plenty  of 
promises  to  write  had  been  given,  but  only  at 
the  very  first  had  they  been  kept ;  and  that  in 
a  most  meagre  fashion.  In  the  midst  of  the 
reckless  dissipation  into  which  he  was  grad 
ually  drifting,  he  had  intervals  of  such  re- 


YOUTH  ON   THE  PltOW.  2  95 

proachful  reflections  ;  but  in  the  main  he  was 
becoming  more  and  more  thoughtless  and  self- 
indulgent. 

One  Sabbath  morning,  when  all  the  service 
bells  of  London  were  ringing,  George  sat  by 
the  fire  listening  to  them.  He  was  weary  of 
himself.  Life  had  a  bad  taste  to  him,  he  was 
half-inclined  to  desert  the  trivial  interests 
which  were  occupying  his  thoughts  and  time. 
The  fact  was,  he  had  been  losing  money,  and 
his  extravagances  were  beginning  to  call  upon 
him.  He  felt  poor,  he  had  a  bill  to  meet,  and 
did  not  know  where  to  get  the  necessary  funds. 
His  account  was  overdrawn.  He  was  ashamed 
to  ask  his  uncle's  help.  He  was  only  heir  at 
will,  the  estate  was  unentailed,  he  could  not 
therefore  discount  his  future. 

Into  the  midst  of  these  unpleasant  reveries 
entered  Kellish.  George  leaped  up  with  both 
hands  outstretched.  The  love  in  the  dark- 
seamed  face,  and  the  joy  at  his  warm  welcome, 
was  such  a  real  thing,  that  it  went  straight  to 
the  young  man's  heart.  He  threw  his  arm 
across  the  shoulder  of  his  visitor  and  forced 
him  into  his  own  chair,  "  the  easiest  of  the 
lot,  you  may  be  sure,"  he  said  with  a  laugh. 


296  FEET  Of  CLAY. 

"And  when  did  you  leave  the  Island?  And 
how  did  you  find  me  out  ?  I've  had  breakfast, 
but  I  can  eat  again.  Let  us  have  breakfast 
together." 

Kellish  was  overpowered  by  his  enthusiasm. 
The  tears  shone  through  his  bright  glances. 
He  suffered  himself  to  be  much  made  of,  and 
watched  his  gay,  lovable  host  with  an  affec 
tion  that  went  straight  to  the  heart,  as  the 
sunshine  goes  to  the  root  of  a  flower. 

The  hours  went  by,  they  never  counted 
them.  They  were  talking  of  real  things,  of 
the  loves  and  hatreds  of  the  past,  and  of 
George's  expectations  in  the  future.  It  was 
near  midnight  when  Kellish  spoke  of  leaving. 
"  I  was  so  hungry  to  be  near  you,"  he  said, 
"  that  I  have  been  hard  to  satisfy.  Seeing 
you  is  not  enough,  though  I  have  seen  you 
every  day." 

"Seen  me?     Where?" 

"  I  have  a  room  opposite  here.  It  has  been 
my  whole  life  to  watch  you  come  in  and  out, 
to  read  your  book  and  all  that  was  said  about 
it,  to  admire  you  riding  in  the  Row,  to  follow 
you  to  the  theatre  or  the  opera-house,  where 
you  were  all  the  play  and  all  the  music  to  me." 


YOUTH   ON   THE  PROW.  297 

"  I  am  not  worthy  of  so  much  love.  Mr. 
Kellish,  why  do  you  give  it  to  me?" 

"  Can  you  tell  me  why  you  like  De  Burg 
and  dislike  Martelle  ?  The  beginnings  of 
liking  and  disliking  are  generally  as  simple  as 
the  opening  of  a  door.  I  had  a  hard  fate 
when  I  was  young.  I  was  abroad  for  more 
than  twenty  years  ;  when  I  came  back  I  was 
forgotten.  All  I  had  cared  for  were  dead  to 
me.  On  that  night  when  we  first  spoke,  I 
was  wretched  and  despairing.  Your  sweet 
courtesy,  your  bright  face,  your  actual  care 
for  my  life,  were  an  incredible  comfort  and 
hope.  Every  soul  must  love  something.  I 
had  had  nothing  but  memories  to  love  for  so 
long  that  I  was  starved.  Do  you  comprehend 
then  what  I  made  of  you?" 

"  You  are  a  very  good  fellow,  and  I  have 
had  far  more  real  pleasure  talking  with  you 
than  ever  I  had  among  the  laughing  and 
dancing  crowds  I  have  lately  frequented.  Do 
not  desert  me  any  more.  I  need  some  one 
older  than  myself,  some  one  I  can  trust.  Be 
my  friend,  then,  my  true  friend." 

"  That  I  promised  long  ago.  If  I  could 
only  do  anything  for  you,  but  you  are  so  rich, 


298  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

so  prosperous,  so  happy !  What  is  there  left 
to  give  but  love?  " 

"You  are  mistaken.  I  am  this  night  very 
unhappy.  I  am  so  poor  that  I  do  not  know 
how  to  meet  a  bill  that  must  be  paid  to 
morrow." 

"  If  a  thousand  pounds  would  be  of  service, 
take  them,  and  give  me  the  greatest  pleasure 
I  can  have." 

George  looked  at  the  man  with  utter  amaze 
ment.  He  had  his  wallet  in  his  hand  and  was 
counting  out  the  amount  in  £100  bills. 

"  Do  not  disappoint  me.  I  have  no  use  for 
the  money,  unless  it  can  be  of  use  to  you." 

"  Mr.  Kellish,  it  will  be  a  godsend  to  me. 
I  will  pay  you — " 

"  I  will  not  lend  it.  You  must  take  it  as  a 
gift,  or  not  at  all.  I  do  not  want  to  become  a 
bore  to  you,  and  I  should  do  so,  if  my  face 
were  only  a  reminder  of  a  debt.  Come,  now, 
take  it !  You  can  make  me  so  happy  !  " 

"  Thank  you." 

"  Thank  you,  Captain." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  but  George 
gave  his  friend  as  he  took  the  notes  a  glance 
full  of  truth  and  kindness,  and  Kcllish,  to  re- 


YOU  7^1   ON    THE  PROW.  299 

lieve  the  consciousness  of  both,  lifted  an  old 
Roman  coin  that  had  been  used  as  a  whist- 
counter,  and  began  to  talk  about  it : 

"  Titus,  eh  ?  Not  a  bad  fellow  for  the 
world  he  lived  in,  a  different  world  from  this." 

"  Yes,  indeed !  I  had  a  fancy  once  for  old 
coins.  They  are  not  worth  much  in  the  way 
of  meeting  a  bill." 

"  No,  you  can't  buy  bread  and  beef  with 
them,  but  this  half-obliterated  image  of  the 
old  Roman  is  a  kind  of  wizard.  Look  at  it : 
the  centuries  collapse,  England  is  a  green 
waste,  and  up  springs  the  triumphal  arch  !  I 
can  see  the  conqueror  and  the  captives  pass 
ing  through  it.  I  can  hear  the  shouts  of  the 
populace  making  a  Roman  holiday,  but  there 
are  the  midnight  clocks  !  I  must  go  now.  I 
hope  I  have  not  wearied  you." 

"  You  have  been  a  great  deliverance,  a  true 
friend  to  me.  Come  soon  again.  I  cannot 
thank  you  as  I  wish  to  now." 

He  smiled  an  answer,  and  closed  the  door 
softly  behind  him  as  he  went  away.  But  his 
heart  was  in  a  tempest  of  fear.  "  He  is  in 
danger,  he  is  in  danger !  I  must  get  nearer, 
nearer,  nearer  to  him!  If  I  spend  all  I  have, 


FEET  OF  CLAY. 

I -must  buy  the  right  to  be  at  his  side!  I 
must !  I  must !  "  Muttering  such  frantic 
words  he  crossed  the  street,  and  admitted 
himself  to  the  house  in  which  he  lodged.  The 
room  in  it  which  he  called  his  own  was  a  good 
room,  well  furnished,  but  desolate  and  uncared- 
for.  He  was  unconscious  of  its  discomfort. 
He  had  but  one  care,  the  danger  of  the  son  he 
loved  better  than  his  own  life.  He  lit  no 
light,  but  sank  into  a  chair  and  covered  his 
face.  Man  would  have  said  that  he  was  silent, 
but  God  heard  the  agonizing  cry  of  his  heart : 
"  The  sins  of  the  fathers  !  Unto  the  third 
and  fourth  generation  !  Redeemer  of  men,  let 
me  alone  bear  the  burden  !  " 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"LIKE     AS     A     FATHER." 

"  Our  deeds  still  travel  with  us  from  afar, 
And  what  we  have  been  makes  us  what  we  are." 

"  The  soul  that  gives  is  the  soul  that  lives." 

"  Measure  thy  life  by  loss  instead  of  gain, 
Not  by  the  wine  drunk,  but  the  wine  poured  forth." 

"  Our  greatest  glory  is  not  in  never  falling,  but  in  rising 
every  time  we  fall." 


is    a   law    of    gravitation   in  the 
X     moral    as    well    as    the    natural    world. 
When  a  young  man  has  begun  to  fall,  he  is 
as  certain  to  continue  his  downward  course  to 
ruin,  as  the  apple  loosened  from  the  bough 
is    certain    to   reach    the  ground,  unless   the 
supernatural     interfere.      In     one     case    the 
human  hand  may  arrest  the  downward  prog 
ress   of  the  apple,  in  the  other,  the  hand  of 
God  may  arrest  and  sustain  the  falling  mortal. 
But    such  supernatural    aid  had    not    been 
solicited  by  George  Pcnnington,  and  for  more 
301 


302  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

than  four  years  he  had  been  falling  with  a 
speed  only  possible  to  those  who  have  gold, 
or  the  want  of  gold,  to  aid  them.  He  had  been 
conscious  of  his  condition  for  a  long  time, 
helplessly  conscious  of  it,  and  one  afternoon 
in  May  he  knew  himself  to  be  almost  at  the 
abyss  of  ruin  which  was  the  terminus  of  his 
downward  course. 

He  was  facing  it  as  a  man  so  sensitive  and 
emotional  was  likely  to  do,  in  unmistakable 
terror.  He  had  hoped  until  hope  had  nothing 
to  cling  to,  and  his  mental  suffering  reacted 
upon  his  nervous  physique,  until  he  had  con 
stantly  recurring  paroxysms  of  feverish  anguish 
and  cold  despair. 

He  was  in  the  same  splendid  rooms,  but  they 
had  suffered  the  same  spoliation  that  had 
blighted  his  own  beauty  and  mental  strength. 
The  bright  sunshine  revealed  the  unrenewed 
wear  and  tear,  the  faded  coloring,  the  tarnished 
gilding,  the  general  air  of  recklessness  and 
want  of  prosperity  which  shows  that  even  me 
nials  scented  the  coming  destruction,  and  have 
hastened  to  take  their  own  small  advantages 
out  of  the  condition. 

It  was  one  item  of  the  misery  George  Pen- 


"LIKE  AS  A   FATHER."  303 

nington  was  enduring,  that  his  nature  was  keen 
ly  sensitive  to  such  small  things  ;  the  stings 
and  pricks  of  his  misfortune  hurt  him  as  well 
as  its  outrageous  slings  and  arrows.  He  saw 
in  the  eyes  of  the  servants,  and  heard  in  their 
voices,  the  reflection  and  echo  of  a  verdict 
whose  intolerable  shame  made  him  burn  and 
shiver  in  anticipation. 

"  My  dear  George  !  "  It  was  Matt  Kellish 
who  spoke.  He  touched  the  fevered  hand  of 
the  young  man,  and  turned  his  face  to  the 
light  with  alarm.  "  You  are  ill.  Now  what 
is  -hounding  you  to  death  ?  I  have  seen 
your  misery  for  a  long  time.  Surely  you  can 
tell  me." 

He  forced  him  to  sit  down,  and  then  placed 
himself  opposite.  "  Tell  me,  tell  me  all,  as 
you  would  have  told  your  mother.  I  shall  be 
just  as  pitiful." 

"  I  know  you  will.  Oh,  Matt !  if  I  only 
durst  tell  you!" 

"  What  have  you  done." 

"  You  will  despise,  you  will  desert  me." 

"  I  will  not,  for  anything." 

"  I  have  written  a  name  I  had  no  right  to 
write." 


3o4  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

"  You  mean  that  you  have  forged  a  name  ?  '* 

"  Yes." 

"Whose?" 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  The  faces  of 
both  men  were  white  and  despairing.  The 
elder  sat  with  his  hands  tightly  locked,  and 
his  dark,  sorrowful  eyes  were  fixed  upon  his 
companion.  The  hands  of  the  younger 
hung  loosely  downward,  his  gaze  was  riveted 
upon  the  ground. 

"  George  !  There  is  surely  something  to 
be  done.  Do  not  waste  time.  Tell  me  the 
name !  " 

"  It  was  Sutcliffe's.  I  have  been  there.  I 
feel  as  if  there  was  nothing  to  be  done." 

"  Why  ?  Have  you  seen  him  ?  Spoken  to 
him?" 

"  No.  He  was  from  home.  I  saw  Harriet. 
She  lectured  me  constantly  about  my  extrava 
gance  and  all  my  sins.  She  thought  she 
was  kind.  I  felt  as  if  it  would  be  impossible 
to  trust  her.  She  has  three  sons  now,  she 
offered  to  call  her  baby  after  me,  if  I  would 
reform.  I  told  her  not  to  do  it,  and  she 
cried.  Her  tears  and  reproaches  hurt  me.  I 
came  away  and  said  nothing." 


"  LIKE  AS  A   FATHER."  305 

"  Blessed  are  the  merciful  women !  Mrs. 
Sutcliffe  has  never  been  tempted,  her  way  has 
been  hedged  in  on  both  sides.  I  am  glad  you 
said  nothing  to  her." 

"  Harriet  is  the  reflection  of  her  husband ; 
therefore  I  fear  him." 

"  How  much,  George?" 

"  £90°-" 
"How  long?" 

"  Ninety  days ;  there  are  thirty-six  hours 
remaining." 

"  Did  you  draw  the  money  yourself  ?  " 

"  No.  The  note  was  given  to  Jack  Derby; 
he  cashed  it." 

"  Ah  !  then  I  handed  it  to  Jack." 

"  Yes.  I  was  going  to  Pennington  that 
morning,  and  I  asked  you  to  give  it  to  him 
when  he  called." 

"  I  remember.  There  is  a  way  out  of  this, 
George.  Let  me  think." 

He  rose  and  went  to  the  window,  and  looked 
out  of  it  across  the  square,  green  and  beautiful 
in  the  sunshine.  He  saw  nothing  of  it.  His 
vision  was  recalling  far  different  scenes :  a 
dark  crowded,  court-room  with  monotonous, 
awful  voices,  and  small  gas-points  struggling 


306  PERT  OF  CLAY. 

with  the  dense  fog ;  a  blank,  stony  prison  full  of 
misery  and  crime  ;  intolerable  humiliations,  in 
tolerable  society,  partings  worse  than  death  ; 
shameful  exile,  and  hell  in  mortal  life.  Driven 
from  one  point  of  agony  to  another,  his  soul 
condensed  into  a  few  moments  the  untold 
anguish  of  years. 

But  the  sufferings  which  had  once  shaken 
him  like  a  tempest  had  also  steadied  him  like 
a  frost.  He  had  the  mastery  at  home ;  he 
could  cross  his  desires,  he  could  command  alike 
his  weakest  and  his  most  disorderly  point, 
without  any  fear  or  mental  mutiny.  In  a  few 
minutes  of  time  he  had  conceived  and  accepted 
an  act  of  sublime  affection.  He  had  some 
thing  of  the  mercy  of  God  in  his  heart,  when 
he  returned  to  the  side  of  the  miserable 
offender.  It  softened  his  touch  and  his  voice. 

"  George,  there  is  but  one  way  out  of  the 
devil's  net.  I  must  take  your  place,  must 
assume  the  guilt,  and  if  it  be  necessary  suffer 
the  punishment." 

"  I  would  never  permit  that,  even  if  it  were 
possible." 

"  It  is  quite  possible,  and  you  must  permit 
it.  In  a  few  minutes  I  will  convince  you. 


"LIKE  AS  A  FATHER:*  307 

This  is  how  it  was.  You  owed  Derby  £900. 
You  were  going  to  Pennington,  and  you  left 
the  money  with  me  to  pay  the  debt.  I  used 
the  money  for  my  purposes,  and  gave  Derby 
the  forged  note.  Fortunately  I  have  bought 
several  horses  for  Colonel  Sutcliffe,  and  we 
have  had  quite  sufficient  business  together  to 
make  it  probable  I  would  select  his  name." 

"  I  forged  the  note.     I  will  bear  the  blame." 

"  I  forged  the  note.  It  is  my  fault  and  my 
blame.  But  I  have  yet  sufficient  securities 
left  to  cover  the  amount.  I  will  take  them  to 
Colonel  Sutcliffe.  He  has  nothing  to  gain  by 
prosecuting  me.  I  have  done  well  by  him  in 
several  cases.  I  have  no  reputation  to  lose, 
and  no  one  knows  much  about  me.  If  I  dis 
appear  who  will  ask  why  or  wherefore  ;  I  love 
no  one  but  you.  If  I  let  you  suffer,  we  must 
both  suffer.  If  I  suffer  alone,  I  suffer  alone, 
and  I  have  the  unspeakable  joy  of  sparing 
you." 

"  You  could  not  spare  me.  Night  and  day 
I  should  be  tormented  by  the  thought  of  my 
own  shameful  escape,  and  the  injustice  I  was 
doing  you." 

"  A  man  in  great  emergencies  must  think  of 


FEET  OF  CLAY. 

others  as  well  as  himself.  Such  a  revelation 
as  this  would  kill  your  uncle.  Public  opinion 
is  the  breath  of  your  sister's  nostrils  ;  think  of 
her  shame." 

"  For  her  sake  Sutcliffe  might  compromise 
the  matter,  if  he  knew  I  was  the  criminal." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  Then  you  do  not  know 
the  man.  He  is  a  martinet  about  his  honor. 
He  would  make  a  glory  of  his  shame  ;  and  as 
for  compounding  a  felony,  he  would  see  you 
stand  in  every  court  in  England  first." 

"  Oh,  Matt,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

"Precisely  what  I  tell  you.  Leave  the 
affair  in  my  hands.  You  have  got  to  the  very 
bottom  of  the  devil's  hill  now,  George.  Turn 
back  ;  turn  back,  my  dear  fellow." 

"  I  will !  I  will !  If  you  get  me  out  of  this 
horrible  mess,  Matt,  I  vow  to  you  that  I  will 
cut  loose  from  every  entanglement.  I  will 
leave  London  altogether.  I  will  go  back  to  my 
uncle,  and  never  wound  his  love  or  waste  his 
generosity  again." 

"  I  believe  you  will,  George.  And  you  must 
not  lose  the  estate.  It  is  lawfully  yours.  I 
mean  it  has  been  promised  to  you  for  so  long. 
You  are  only  thirty  years  old,  all  your  life  is 


" UKE  AS  A  FATHER:'  309 

before  you.  I  am  sixty.  I  am  not  in  health. 
I  may  not  live  long  in  any  case.  I  have  not 
done  much  good  with  my  life,  let  me  at  least 
give  you  an  opportunity  to  redeem  your 
wasted  years." 

Misery  is  misery  past  all  controversy,  and 
misery  is  always  selfish.  To  get  ease  at  any 
cost  is  its  imperative  demand.  George  hesi 
tated  and  protested,  but  finally  accepted  the 
offer  of  relief  made  him.  He  did  it  truly  with 
tears  and  contrition,  and  boundless  expres 
sions  of  affection,  and  Kellish  appeared  to  find 
a  sombre  satisfaction  in  the  young  man's  love 
and  sorrow. 

"  I  shall  leave  for  SutclifTe  to-night,  and  do  all 
that  it  is  possible  to  do.  If  the  very  worst 
comes,  remember,  George,  I  forged  the  note, 
and  I  will  stand  to  that  statement  though  you 
denied  it  to  my  face.  You  are  innocent.  I 
only  am  to  blame.  There  must  be  no  half- 
admissions.  You  know  absolutely  nothing 
about  it.  Whatever  I  say,  do  not  contradict 
me.  If  you  implicate  yourself  in  the  least,  I 
will  never  forgive  you.  Come  now,  let  us  talk 
of  something  else.  There  is  no  need  to  dis 
cuss  what  is  settled." 


3^6  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

"  I  will  tell  you  a  strange  thing,  a  very  aw 
ful  thing.  This  morning  just  before  dawn  I 
sat  here,  silent,  motionless,  weary  with  mis 
erable  thoughts.  The  door  was  shut,  but  I 
knew  that  some  one  entered.  A  great  fear 
and  awe  forced  my  soul  prostrate.  In  a  mo 
ment  of  time  I  saw  the  horror  of  my  whole 
life.  I  abhorred  myself.  I  wanted  to  hide 
myself  from  myself.  Then  I  knew  that  my 
mother  was  at  my  side  :  '  The  innocent  for  the 
guilty.'  I  heard  these  words,  I  heard,  I  felt ; 
oh,  Matt !  Matt !  I  cannot  tell  what  awful  in 
tercourse  my  soul  had.  It  was  weeping,  shiv 
ering,  full  of  such  agony  as  it  has  in  dreams, 
when  the  body  can  neither  share  its  sufferings 
nor  its  consolations.  Do  you  think  I  was 
dreaming?  Is  it  possible  for  a  spirit  to  love 
those  it  has  left  behind ;  to  visit  them,  to 
talk  with  them  ?  Matt,  you  have  studied  every 
side  of  humanity,  have  you  personally  ever 
known  anything  like  this?  " 

"  I  should  think  I  was  pure  clay  if  I  had 

not. 

'  Who  ne'er  his  bread  in  sorrow  ate, 

Who  ne'er  the  mournful  midnight  hours 
Weeping  upon  his  bed  has  sate, 

He  knows  you  not,  ye  Heavenly  Powers.' 


"  UKE  AS  A    FATHER."  3tf 

But  I  have  been  nourished  upon  the  bread  of 
sorrow.  I  have  sat  waiting  for  these  heaven 
ly  powers  when  my  sorrow  was  far  too  great 
for  weeping.  If  they  are  caring  for  you,  re 
proaching,  warning,  comforting,  I  work  with 
them,  and  how  great  is  my  work !  Now  I  am 
sure  that  my  plan  is  right.  She  knows  it.  If 
she  foresaw  the  trouble,  she  has  also  known 
what  I  would  feel  constrained  to  do,  being 
your  friend." 

"  You  think  then  it  was  no  dream  ;  that  it 
was  really  my  angel  mother?  " 

"  Do  you  believe  that  your  soul  exists  after 
death?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  believe  that  it  can  talk  with  the  liv 
ing.  What  is  man  but  an  imprisoned  soul  ? 
If  a  free  man  can  reach  a  prisoner,  he  can  talk 
with  him  ;  if  a  freed  soul  can  reach  a  captive 
soul,  it  can  talk  to  it.  If  souls  survive,  will 
their  affections  die?  What  kind  of  a  soul 
would  it  be  without  affections  ?  Will  not  the 
being  which  thinks  within  us  before  death, 
think  also  after  death  ?  Will  it  not  think  of 
those  it  loved  best  in  life?  If  so,  will  it  not 
desire  to  communicate  with  them  ?  And  if 


3ts  FEET  OF  CLA\>. 

spirit  can  act  upon  inert  substances,  why  can 
not  it  act  upon  intelligent  beings  ?  I  have  no 
cloubt  your  mother  visited  you.  While  I  am 
away  fasten  your  soul  to  the  memory.  Such 
a  visit  was  not  idly  made,  find  out  its  purpose 
and  serve  it.  Now,  then,  I  must  go.  How 
ever  we  meet  again,  this  parting  was  well 
made,  I  am  sure  of  that." 

They  said  good-bye  with  their  souls  in  their 
faces  and  scarce  a  word  on  their  lips.  But 
their  hands  burned  with  their  passionate  grip, 
and  great  tears  sprang  unbidden  from  their 
secret  source  and  dropped  upon  them. 

The  next  afternoon  Kellish  was  standing  in 
the  library  at  Sutcliffe  Manor.  He  had  sent 
his  card  to  the  colonel,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
he  answered  the  request  it  made.  He  came 
into  the  room  smiling,  with  his  hand  extended. 
He  thought  only  that  Mr.  Matthew  Kellish 
had  heard  of  some  wonderful  colt,  and  wanted 
to  make  a  few  pounds  by  effecting  a  sale. 

When  Kellish  pointedly  passed  by  the 
offered  courtesy  he  sat  clown  a  little  haughtily, 
and  his  manner  and  curt  inquiry  as  to  the  rea 
son  of  the  visit  proved  to  be  the  key-note  of 
the  interview.  Instinctively  Kellish  divined 


"LIKE  AS  A    FATHER."  313 

that  there  was  no  hope  in  this  man ;  and 
after  a  moment's  hesitation  he  stated  bluntly 
the  business  upon  which  he  had  come. 

As  he  spoke  the  colonel's  face  grew  sterner 
and  sterner.  Kellish  had  laid  what  securities 
he  still  possessed  upon  the  table  before  him, 
and  he  pushed  them  indignantly  aside.  His 
attitude  chilled  and  dashed  the  suppliant,  and 
he  made  the  very  worst  of  a  bad  case. 

When  he  ceased  speaking,  the  colonel  said 
sternly :  "  This  impudent  forgery,  Mr.  Kellish, 
is,  in  the  first  place,  a  crime  against  the  laws  of 
the  country;  in  the  second  place  it  is  a  double 
insult  to  myself  personally.  You  have  used 
the  name  of  a  gentleman  of  honorable  family, 
an  officer  once  of  Her  Majesty's  army,  a  magis 
trate  now  of  Her  Majesty's  government,  to 
pass  a  fraudulent  note  with,  and  you  have 
dared  to  think  that  I  would  condone  such  an 
offence  and  make  myself  the  partner  of  your 
rascality.  Sir,  1  would  give  up  every  acre, 
every  shilling  I  possess,  rather  than  be  guilty 
of  such  an  infamy.  You  have  made  your  con 
fession  to  one  of  Her  Majesty's  magistrates ; 
nothing  remains  for  me  but  to  commit  you 
for  trial.  I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Kellish,  very  sorry, 


3H  t'EET  OF  CLAY. 

very    sorry,    indeed ;    but    I    must     do     my 
duty." 

"  Of  course,  sir.  I  would  not  much  mind  if 
it  could  be  done  without  the  knowledge  of 
Mr.  George  Pennington.  It  is  hard  to  lose 
his  good  opinion." 

"  He  knows  nothing  of  this  affair,  then?  " 
"  No,  sir  ;  nothing  at  all ;  if  it  could  be  kept 
from  him — "  * 

"  Mr.  Kellish,  I  must  tell  you  that  I  think 
your  influence  upon  my  brother-in-law  has 
been  very  bad  indeed.  I  have  no  doubt  you 
are  to  blame  for  all  his  wicked  extravagances 
and  objectionable  society.  You  are  an  old 
man,  you  should  have  respected  his  youth. 
In  the  mean  time,  Mr.  Kellish,  if  you  wish  to 
write  to  your  lawyer — ' 

"  I  wish  to  write  only  to  Mr.  Pennington." 
This  letter  was  short  and  rather  formal,  but 
it  hurt  the  man  who  received  it  as  much  as  if 
every  word  was  a  sword-thrust : 

DEAR  MR.  PENNINGTON  : 

I  came  to  Sutcliffe  to  tell  the  Colonel  I  had 
forged  a  note  with  his  name  ninety  days  ago. 
I  used  the  money  you  left  for  Derby  for  my 
own  purposes,  and  then  gave  the  note  to  him 


"LIKE  AS  A   FATHER."  3J5 

in  its  place.  Forgive  me  !  Colonel  Sutcliffe 
being  a  magistrate,  is  obliged  on  my  own  con 
fession  to  commit  me.  I  should  like  to  see 
you  for  an  hour,  and  correct  as  far  as  I  can 
any  injury  I  have  done  you,  as  to  your 
accounts,  etc. 

MATTHEW  KELLISH. 

This  note  brought  George  to  Sutcliffe  at 
once.  He  arrived  in  the  morning,  and  hiring 
a  gig  drove  himself  over  to  the  manor  house. 
In  the  park  he  met  Harriet  walking  with  her 
children.  Her  brother's  appearance  shocked 
her ;  she  left  her  babies  with  their  nurses,  and 
accompanied  him  to  the  house. 

"  I  am  ill,  Harriet,"  he  said  fretfully,  "  and 
this  trouble  of  my  friend's  has  quite  un 
manned  me." 

"  I  think  it  is  dreadful.  Harry  told  me.  He 
is  feeling  awfully  about  his  name  being  used 
for  such  a  disgraceful  thing.  He  could  not 
sleep,  and  worried  and  scolded  until  I  was 
sick  with  a  past  terror ;  for  oh,  George  !  I  re 
member  that  affair  with  Penrith.  I  do  hope 
there  is  no  fear  of  scandal  from  that.  Do  you 
think  this  wrong  will  lead  to  any  whisper  of 
it?  I  suppose  I  am  foolish,  but,  oh  dear,  if 


3*6  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

you  had  seen  and  heard  Harry !  I  think  he 
would  desert  me  if  he  knew  about  Penrith." 

"  Do  let  Penrith  alone.  Penrith  is  a  gentle 
man,  he  is  something  more  and  better.  I 
have  no  doubt  Harry  fumed  :  the  Sutcliffes 
must  take  precious  good  care  of  what  honor 
they  have." 

"George!  You  shall  not  speak  of  my  hus 
band  in  that  way." 

"  I  shall  speak  as  I  think,  Harriet,  even  if 
your  husband  were  here.  He  had  better  not 
fume  much  at  me,  or  I  will  give  his  honor 
something  to  fume  about.  Kellish  is  my  dear 
est  friend  ;  he  has  done  your  husband  more 
than  one  good  turn.  Why,  he  got  him  Peer 
less  for  fifty  guineas  and  he  is  now  worth 
a  thousand.  I  say  there  are  times  when 
gentlemen  let  honor  slip  into  something 
kinder  and  nobler." 

"  Harry  says  the  man  has  been  your  ruin,  that 
was  the  chief  reason  he  was  so  hard  with  him." 

"  I  will  thank  Colonel  Sutcliffe  not  to  inter 
fere  with  my  affairs.  Kellish  my  ruin  !  Why, 
I  have  been  his  ruin.  The  man  has  given  me 
everything  he  had.  I  owe  Kellish  ,£18,000, 
and  he  never  took  an  acknowledgment  for  it, 


"LIKE  AS  A   FATHER."  317 

or  a  shilling  of  interest.  No,  he  never  even 
reminded  me  of  my  debt." 

"  There  was  something  wicked  in  such  reck 
less  kindness.  I  cannot  understand  it." 

"The  man  loves  me!  and  oh,  I  am  so 
unworthy  of  his  love!  so  shamefully  un 
worthy!" 

"  I  think  you  must  be  crazy,  George,  or  you 
are  ill.  I  can  see  that  you  have  a  fever.  I 
shall  send  for  a  doctor  as  soon  as  you  are  in 
the  house." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  stay  in  Sutcliffe's  house. 
I  was  only  coming  here  to  talk  with  him  about 
this  business.  Do  you  think  I  would  eat  at 
his  table,  or  sleep  under  his  roof,  after  he  had 
sent  my  friend  to  prison  ?  I  would  perish  on 
the  roadside  first." 

"  So  then  you  put  this  man,  this  forger, 
before  an  honorable  gentleman  like  your 
brother-in-law  ?  " 

"  I  put  Kellish  ten  million  times  before  Sut- 
cliffe.  He  is  incomparably  his  superior  in 
everything." 

"  I  saw  the  man  as  the  constable  took  him 
away.  He  looked  like  a  scoundrel.  Such  a 
dreadful  face  !  " 


3*8  FEKT  OF  CLAY. 

"  Not  half  so  much  like  a  scoundrel  as 
I  look.  Dreadful  face  indeed!  If  you  only 
knew  the  reason  of  those  scars  and  seams,  you 
would  know  a  story  of  suffering  and  self-denial 
which  might  make  angels  weep." 

"  Of  course  he  could  tell  you  anything,  a 
man  like  that !  Nobody  knows  anything 
about  him.  If  he  were  a  gentleman  people 
would  know." 

"  I  know.  He  has  honor,  truth,  gentle  man 
ners,  and  a  kind  heart.  He  had  plenty  of 
money  until  I  squandered  it.  He  has  read 
everything,  and  he  has  thought  deeply  on  all 
subjects.  He  can  sail  a  yacht  like  a  North  sea 
skipper;  he  can  climb  like  a  Shetlander.  In  a 
hunting-field  he  takes  everything.  He  knows 
a  horse  better  than  any  man  in  England." 

"  And  a  pack  of  cards  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  ;  but  he  never  touches  one." 

"And  how  to  ruin  a  young  man  that  trusts 
him." 

"  Harriet  Sutcliffe,  I  should  have  made  your 
honorable  husband  tingle  for  his  stainless 
name  long  before  this,  had  it  not  been  for 
Matthew  Kellish.  He  has  saved  me  from 
crime — yes,  crime  ;  he  has  been  a  conscience  to 


"LIKE  AS  A   FATHER."  3r9 

me ;  he  has  been,  oh,  what  has  he  not  been ! 
I  am  going  to  the  village,  I  will  put  you  down 
at  this  gate." 

"  You  are  ill,  almost  delirious.  No  one 
knows  what  you  may  say.  You  are  going 
home  with  me." 

"  I  am  going  to  my  friend.  I  shall  stand  by 
him.  I  have  a  great  mind  to  claim  a  share  of 
his  fault,  so  that  I  may  go  with  him  to  its 
punishment." 

"  George  !  George !  Oh,  what  dreadful 
things  you  make  me  suspect." 

"  Suspect,  if  you  wish  ;  perhaps  you  may 
come  near  to  the  truth."  He  had  drawn  up 
at  the  gate  leading  to  the  village,  and  he 
assisted  Harriet  to  the  ground.  She  was 
white  with  fear. 

"  You  will  return  very  soon,  for  my  sake  ?  " 

"  No,  I  will  not  return."  He  nodded  back 
to  her,  and  the  very  force  of  habit  made  him 
try  to  smile,  a  momentary  wretched  gleam 
over  a  woeful  face.  She  could  not  put  it  out 
of  her  memory. 

As  Kellish  had  not  yet  been  formally  com 
mitted,  he  was  able  tb  command  a  small  pri 
vate  room,  and  there  George  found  him.  A 


320  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

man  accustomed  to  the  presence  of  criminals 
could  never  have  doubted  a  moment  as  to 
which  of  these  two  was  the  real  one.  Kel- 
lish  was  serene  and  almost  cheerful ;  he  met 
George  with  a  smile  which  made  the  young 
man  sink  weeping  into  a  chair. 

"  I  want  to  die,"  he  whispered.  "  I  want  to 
die,  Matt.  I  am  come  to  stay  here  with  you." 

"  You  are  very  sick,  George,  and  you  must 
make  all  the  speed  you  can  back  to  Sutcliffe." 

"  I  will  not  enter  the  house." 

"  Then  go  to  Pennington.  You  can  do  me 
no  good.  My  course  is  plain  enough.  I  will 
tell  you  the  very  worst,  and  we  will  accept  it 
together.  Then  if  you  would  do  me  the  only 
favor  you  can,  if  you  would  make  me  happy, 
leave  me  alone.  I  care  nothing  for  being  in 
prison ;  '  stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make '  for 
me,  unless  you  see  me  there.  I  am  perfectly 
indifferent  to  every  indignity  the  law  can  offer 
me,  if  you  do  not  see  and  suffer  in  my  sup 
posed  humiliation.  My  separation  from  you  is 
the  only  grief  now  possible  to  me.  I  do  not 
think  it  will  be  a  long  one." 

"Years." 

"  Perhaps  it  may   be    seven  years,     I  can 


"LIKE  AS  A   FATHEK."  32! 

reduce  them  to  five.  I  may  be  at  liberty 
at  the  end  of  two.  George  I  am  going  to 
hit  your  love  for  me  a  hard  blow;  will  it 
stand  it  ?  " 

"  Nothing  can  weaken  it." 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  you  something  of 
myself.  When  I  was  about  your  age  I  was 
living  just  such  a  life  as  you  have  been  living. 
I  got  into  a  desperate  difficulty.  I  forged  a 
note  on  my  most  intimate  friend.  He  became 
my  bitterest  enemy.  He  prosecuted  me  to 
the  utmost  of  his  power.  I  was  sentenced  to 
twenty-five  years  of  penal  servitude.  In  my 
third  year  I  fell  into  kind  hands.  I  made 
friends ;  by  and  by  I  was  released  on  certain 
conditions,  and  put  in  offices  of  trust  over 
other  unfortunate  sinners.  In  taking  a  gang 
from  one  station  to  another,  I  nearly  perished 
with  them.  I  received  great  praise  for  my 
conduct  at  the  time.  I  had  almost  ceased  to 
feel  the  bonds  of  my  slavery,  when  my  free 
dom  came.  I  returned  to  England.  My 
inheritance  had  been  given  to  another.  All  I 
loved  were  dead  to  me.  For  me  to  have 
come  to  life  again,  would  have  made  misery 
and  shame.  I  determined  to  go  back  to  New 


322  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

South  Wales,  and  went  to  Liverpool  for  that 
purpose.  Walking  on  the  quays  looking  for  a 
ship,  I  saw  a  steamer  going  to  the  Isle  of 
Man.  A  sudden  impulse  made  me  board  her, 
and  while  I  hesitated  she  sailed." 

At  this  point  he  ceased  speaking.  George 
had  drawn  close  to  him,  had  taken  his  hands; 
something  was  interpreting  their  hearts,  they 
had  come  closer  to  each  other  than  the 
mere  touch  of  flesh  and  blood  indicated.  In 
a  few  moments  Kellish  resumed  in  a  low 
voice : 

"  Listen  to  what  I  intend.  When  I  am 
brought  to  trial  I  shall  plead  guilty,  and 
throw  myself  upon  the  mercy  of  the  law.  So 
then  there  will  be  no  need  to  examine  witnesses, 
to  make  accusations  or  defences.  All  will  be 
settled  in  a  few  hours.  I  do  not  fear  the  exile. 
I  have  many  friends  over  yonder.  The  climate 
suits  me.  It  will  cure  this  dreadful  cough 
which  has  troubled  me  all  the  past  winter. 
When  the  affair  dies  out  of  memory,  you  can 
make  a  trip  to  see  this  new  land,  it  is  worth  it, 
and  I  shall  live  content  in  the  prospect.  Time 
gets  over.  And  besides,  George,  you  know 
that  my  anchor  is  made  fast  to  another  world. 


"LIKE  AS  A   FATHER."  323 

I  ride  at  rest  or  stem  the  waves,  and  if  I  sink 
it  is  to  another  sea.  Be  comforted,  dear  boy, 
and  go  to  Penntngton.  Tell  your  uncle  as 
much  as  you  think  best,  and  throw  yourself  on 
his  love;  he  has  a  father's  heart  for  a  prodigal. 
I  know  it  by  my  own." 

The  jailer  came  in  at  this  point,  and  the  part 
ing,  fortunately  for  George,  was  apparently  a 
formal  one.  He  went  to  the  hotel  and  hired  a 
carriage  to  take  him  post  to  Pennington.  He 
was  very  ill  when  he  entered  it,  and  the  journey 
proved  a  terrible  one  to  him. 

For  the  Lord  shook  the  man  body  and  soul. 
Remorse  and  pity,  and  shame  and  self-abase 
ment  drove  his  distracted  soul  about  her  house. 
She  ran  to  and  fro  to  all  the  doors  of  life,  hop 
ing  to  find  some  exit  from  her  miserable  dwell 
ing.  And  oh,  how  this  mental  agony  tortured 
him  physically  !  From  head  to  feet  he  was  in 
intolerable  pain.  When  he  arrived  at  his 
journey's  end  he  had  to  be  lifted  out  of  the 
carnage.  He  felt  his  uncle's  arms  around 
him,  and  had  barely  strength  and  sense  to 
whisper,  "  I  am  come  home  to  die." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

A  SACRIFICE  ACCEPTED. 

"  He  will  swallow  up  death  in  victory,  and  the  Lord 
God  will  wipe  away  tears." — Is.  xxv.  8. 

"  Haply  the  river  of  Time 

****** 

As  it  draws  to  the  ocean  may  strike 

Peace  to  the  soul  of  the  man  on  its  breast ; 

As  the  pale  waste  widens  around  him, 

As  the  banks  fade  dimmer  away, 

As  the  stars  come  out,  and  the  night-wind 

Brings  up  the  stream 

Murmurs  and  scents  of  the  infinite  sea." — ARNOLD. 

FROM  the  lowest  depth  there  is  a  path  to 
the  loftiest  heights.  In  that  still  border 
land  lying  within  the  shadow  of  death, 
George  Pennington,  seeing  nothing  else,  saw 
this.  After  being  many  weeks  in  the  helpless, 
semi-conscious  condition  of  typhoid  fever,  he 
began  slowly  to  come  back  to  healthy  life,  with 
relapses  and  pauses,  however,  which  baffled 
medicine  and  were  only  to  be  accounted  for  by 
a  continuance  of  the  mental  conditions  which 
had  in  the  first  place  induced  his  illness. 
324 


A    SACRIFICE  ACCEPTED.  &*> 

His  first  intelligent  inquiiy  regarded  Kellish. 
"  Has  he  been  tried  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  despairing 
whisper. 

"Yes,"  answered  Robert  Pennington,  "he 
got  off  better  than  he  deserved.  There  was  no 
trial  to  speak  of.  The  man  acknowledged  him 
self  to  be  a  returned  convict.  It  seems  his 
record  was  a  very  good  one,  an  exceptionally 
good  one,  and  he  expressed  such  regret  about 
the  crime  that  he  only  received  seven  years. 
Sutcliffe  also  spoke  in  his  favor ;  he  says  Kel 
lish  looked  very  ill." 

"Has  he  sailed?" 

"  He  was  sent  to  Dartmoor.  He  will  not 
leave  England  at  all.  Why  do  you  worry 
about  him?  " 

"  I  love  him  !  "  he  sighed  wearily  and  closed 
his  eyes,  and  Robert  Pennington  had  a  sense 
of  injury  in  his  heart  as  he  watched  the  hope 
less,  wretched  look  on  his  nephew's  face.  For 
three  months  he  had  been  at  his  side  night  and 
day.  He  had  spent  money  freely  in  the  settle 
ment  of  the  debts  and  liabilities  of  his  reckless 
London  life,  and  yet  George  had  not  said  to 
him,  "  I  love  you." 

But  love's  strength  is  sacrifice.     In   sickness 


326  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

and  sorrow  it  suffers  a  sublime  change ;  it  de 
mands  less  and  gives  more.  When  the  calm 
September  days  brought  with  them  so  much  of 
health  to  the  invalid  as  enabled  him  to  take 
short  walks  in  the  garden,  Robert  Penning- 
ton  was  troubled  to  find  that  the  constant 
melancholy,  at  some  hours  the  restless  despair, 
of  his  nephew  did  not  vanish  with  his  physical 
weakness.  He  spoke  to  him  cheerfully  of  his 
affairs,  hopefully  of  his  future,  he  showed  him 
in  every  possible  way  that  all  the  past  was  for 
given  ;  and  it  did  seem  a  little  hard  that  such 
magnanimity  of  long-suffering  love  could  not 
banish  the  regrets  for  a  life  which  had  been 
altogether  such  a  woful  failure. 

One  evening  the  two  men  sat  silently  in  the 
dining-room.  The  wax  candles  made  only  a 
small  circle  of  light,  but  the  blazing  logs  threw 
fitful  flashes  over  their  thoughtful  faces,  and 
made  all  kinds  of  shadowy  pictures  on  the  walls. 

"  George,  I  cannot  bear  this  silent  sorrow  of 
yours  any  longer.  To-day  I  saw  you  in  the 
summer-house  ;  your  arms  were  on  the  table, 
your  face  buried  in  them.  You  were  sobbing 
as  men  never  sob,  unless  there  is  some  awful 
reason  for  it.  For  false  love,  or  even  dead 


A    SACRIFICE  ACCEPTED.  327 

love,  we  make  no  such  hopeless  crying.  You 
have  no  business  troubles,  your  health  is  re 
turning  rapidly,  and  if  you  want  an  opportu 
nity  to  wipe  out  every  past  folly  there  is  a 
grand  one  open  to  you.  England  is  calling  for 
soldiers,  and  gallant  men  are  doing  and  suffer 
ing  in  a  cause  so  just  that  even  our  hereditary 
enemy  France  is  on  our  side.  George,  you 
promised  me  once,  that  if  you  sinned  you 
would  be  your  own  accuser.  Have  you  any 
thing  to  tell  me?  Is  there  anything  for  me  to 
forgive  ?  George,  speak  to  me." 

Then  the  young  man  lifted  his  bent  face,  and 
in  a  low,  intense  voice  told  the  story  of  his  ac 
quaintance  with  Matt  Kellish.  He  told  it  sim 
ply  just  as  it  happened,  all  his  faults  and  how 
Matt  had  borne  with  him,  all  his  sins  and  how 
he  had  reproved  him,  and  reasoned  with  him, 
and  finally  paid  their  terrible  price.  "  I  have 
heard  of  guardian  angels,"  he  said  ;  "  Matt  Kel 
lish  was  mine.  If  I  had  taken  his  advice ! 
Oh,  if  I  had  only  done  as  he  entreated  me,  I 
should  not  be  this  night  the  most  woful  soul 
out  of  hell !  " 

During  the  recital  Robert  Pennington's  face 
changed  continually.  He  seemed  to  be  full  of 


PERT  of  CLA  Y. 

some  new-born  thought,  and  to  be  examining 
it  with  an  earnestness  that  was  almost  impa 
tient.  He  asked  many  questions:  not  about 
George's  experiences,  but  about  Kellish,  about 
his  personal  appearance,  his  age,  his  voice, — in 
fact,  the  whole  interest  of  the  confession  for 
Robert  Pennington  settled  upon  Matt  Kellish. 

"  You  have  not  said  one  word  of  reproach  to 
me,  uncle,  and  yet  I  have  deserved  that  you 
should  cast  me  off  for  ever.  I  have  done  every 
thing  that  you  told  me  not  to  do." 

"  Shall  I  be  harder  to  you  than  this  stran 
ger?  You  are  the  son  of  my  only  brother,  of 
my  elder  brother,  who  was  always  kind  to  me, 
whom  I  loved  and  admired  above  all  other 
men.  The  question  of  forgiveness  is  settled, 
George.  You  know  that  I  have  forgiven  you. 
I  am  thinking  now  of  this  noble  fellow  who  is 
suffering  for  you.  We  must  go  and  see  him. 
My  political  influence  is  great.  I  have  hither 
to  asked  no  favors.  I  can  command  what  I 
ask  and  we  must  not  rest  until  he  is  released." 

"  I  ought  to  take  his  place.  I  never  intend 
ed  to  let  him  carry  out  such  a  sacrifice.  When 
I  came  to  Pennington  I  came  intending  to  tell 
you  all.  I  hoped  you  would  have  influence 


A    SACRIFICE  ACCEPTED.  329 

with  Sutcliffe.  If  not,  I  think  I  should  have 
been  man  enough  to  face  my  deserts.  This 
shameful  cowardice,  forced  upon  me  by  sick 
ness  which  left  me  unconscious  and  helpless,  is 
not  my  fault ;  so  far  I  may  take  excuse.  To 
day  I  walked  nearly  three  miles  without  much 
fatigue,  and  as  I  sat  in  the  summer-house  rest 
ing,  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  time 
had  come  to  tell  you  all.  I  was  weeping  for 
this  necessity.  You  have  been  so  patient,  so 
gentle,  so  good,  and  I  love  you  truly." 

"But  we  must  do  nothing  without  consult 
ing  Mr.  Kellish.  He  gave  you  first  his  love, 
then  he  emptied  his  purse  for  you.  His 
honor,  his  liberty,  his  life,  nothing  has  been 
withheld  !  My  dear  George,  he  has  the  right 
to  say  whether  you  are  to  make  void  all  this 
transcendent  travail  of  soul.  I  am  glad  you 
told  me.  I  feel  myself  nobler  for  the  knowl 
edge  of  such  humanity.  I  fear  there  will  be 
some  necessary  delay  in  getting  permission  to 
visit  him  from  the  Home  Secretary,  but  I  will 
take  the  first  steps  to-night,  and  I  will  write  to 
the  chaplain  at  Dartmoor,  and  ask  him  to  tell 
your  friend  how  ill  you  have  been,  and  give 
him  hope  of  a  speedy  visit  from  you." 


33°  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

George  had  no  words  to  express  his  grati 
tude,  but  his  dark,  sunken  eyes  brimmed  full, 
and  the  color  flashed  into  his  white  face,  and 
these  signs  said  more  to  Robert  Pennington 
than  hurrying  syllables,  however  eloquent. 
When  they  parted  that  night  they  had  come 
close  to  each  other.  The  hand-clasp,  the 
steady  look,  the  few  simple  words  at  parting, 
had  a  significance  that  satisfied  both. 

Left  to  himself  Robert  Pennington  gave 
way  to  uncontrollable  anguish  of  heart.  "  It 
is  Arthur !  It  is  Arthur  himself !  "  he  cried. 
"Who  else  could  have  done  this  great  thing? 
Oh,  my  brother,  my  brother !  Your  love 
shames  me!  Such  a  sublime  silence!  Such 
grandeur  of  self-sacrifice !  Divine  Redeemer 
of  men,  Thou,  and  Thou  only,  hast  been  his 
teacher." 

He  rose  with  a  hurry  of  affection.  Every 
moment's  delay  was  a  separate  pain.  He 
occupied  the  night  in  writing  letters,  in  ar 
ranging  his  affairs  for  an  uncertain  absence,  in 
preparing  himself  personally  for  a  journey. 
While  it  was  yet  dark  he  called  his  servants 
and  his  nephew ;  they  had  breakfasted  and 
were  ready  to  start  when  the  day  broke.  In 


A    SACRIFICE  ACCEPTED.  331 

forty-eight  hours  they  were  in  London.  Here 
they  were  delayed  some  time.  Certain  official 
forms  had  to  be  observed,  and  official  routine 
was  not  to  be  regulated  by  the  impatience  of 
any  suitor.  Then  George  had  a  serious  re 
lapse;  it  was  the  middle  of  November  when 
they  were  able  to  travel  westward. 

The  weather  was  wet  and  mournful ;  George 
thought  everything  around  was  the  color  of 
ashes.  The  great  flocks  of  crows  flying  heavily 
and  silently  through  the  dense  air  gave  to  the 
landscape  a  gloomier  shade,  and  to  themselves 
a  sense  of  uncanny  and  unfortunate  com 
panionship.  They  mounted  higher  and  higher 
till  the  rolling  fog  became  cutting  sleet,  and  the 
horses  panted  and  stood  still  in  their  distress. 
They  were  one  thousand  feet  above  the  sea  in  a 
wild  and  howling  wilderness.  There  was  still 
another  rise  of  eight  hundred  feet,  and  nothing 
but  granite  and  withered  gorse  and  heather 
around  them.  Everything  was  soaked  and 
frozen.  The  utter  forlornness  of  this  stony, 
misty  desert  entered  into  the  hearts  of  both 
men.  They  felt  a  cold  despair,  a  silent  horror 
which  could  not  rise  even  to  an  interchange  of 
their  wretchedness. 


33 2  FEET  OF  CLA  K. 

As  they  neared  the  prison  barracks  a  cold, 
freezing  wind  blew  the  mist  hither  and  thither, 
and  in  so  doing  revealed  as  through  a  veil  the 
dreary  granite  building.  Its  high  walls,  its 
awful  portal  of  almost  fantastic  dread  and 
gloom,  had  a  fearsome  unreality.  Backwards 
and  forwards  rolled  the  heavy  masses  of  vapor, 
hiding  and  discovering  the  different  gangs  of 
convicts  at  their  labor,  the  cordon  of  armed 
guards,  the  pickets  with  their  ready  rifles. 

The  men  worked  mechanically,  unceasingly, 
with  bent  heads.  An  air  of  silence  and  mys 
tery  and  despair  pervaded  them.  Toiling  con 
victs,  watchful  guards,  imperturbable,  resolute 
pickets,  all  alike  had  the  atmosphere  of  person 
ages  in  some  awful  dream.  The  gloomy  village 
attached  to  the  prison  is  the  highest  inhabited 
place  in  England.  No  one  lives  there  but  the 
emissaries  of  punishment  and  justice,  except 
the  priests  who  have  these  lost  sheep  in  the 
wilderness  in  their  spiritual  care. 

Robert  Pennington  drove  to  the  Governor's 
house.  He  had  letters  with  him  which  would 
secure  every  privilege  he  desired,  and  a  private 
interview  with  criminal  3300  was  the  first 
request  made.  An  order  to  this  effect  was 


A   SACRIFICE  ACCEPTED.  333 

sent  to  the  prison  house,  and  pending  its 
execution  the  Governor  pressed  upon  the 
travellers  some  refreshment.  Robert  Penning- 
ton  forced  himself  to  accept  the  kindness. 
He  was  aware  that  the  body  might  fail  where 
the  soul  would  face  its  extremity.  He  drank 
a  glass  of  wine  and  ate  some  food,  and  by 
a  look  of  commanding  entreaty  compelled 
George  to  do  the  same.  In  half  an  hour  they 
were  escorted  through  those  tremendous  por 
tals  of  shame.  The  chaplain  met  them  with 
a  concerned  face.  He  had  a  card  in  his  hand 
inscribed  with  the  number  of  the  man  who 
had  once  possessed  a  name.  He  looked  at  it 
and  then  at  his  visitors  : 

"  Gentlemen,  3300  is  very  ill.  He  has 
been  in  the  hospital  for  six  weeks.  By  order 
he  has  just  been  removed  into  a  private  room. 
He  will  have  solitude  to  die  in.  That  is  a 
great  deal  here,  I  assure  you." 

He  opened  a  door  with  the  words  and  softly 
shut  it  when  they  had  entered.  Kellish  lay 
upon  a  narrow  bed.  His  eyes  were  closed,  he 
was  wasted  away,  he  was  breathing  slowly  and 
with  difficulty.  But  one  glance  was  sufficient 
for  Robert  Pennington,  With  an  incredible 


334  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

swiftness  and  solemnity  he  reached  the  dying 
man ;  he  knelt  at  his  side,  he  called  out  with 
intensity  of  woful  love  and  anguish  : 

"Arthur!  Arthur!  My  brother!  my  brother 
Arthur!" 

A  shrill,  weak  cry,  the  cry  of  a  man  from  the 
very  shoal  of  time,  answered  him. 

Then  George  knew  the  whole  mystery  of 
love.  No  one  needed  to  teach  him  the  word 
he  kissed  upon  lips  already  kissed  by  death  : 

"  Father  !  Father  !  Father  !  " 

At  that  cry  a  glory  of  love  illumined  the 
clay-like  mask.  The  soul  leaped  once  more 
into  the  eyes.  The  last  tears,  tears  of  joy, 
softened  their  piercing  gaze.  At  that  moment 
the  heart  of  the  son  was  drawn  deep  and  close 
to  the  father's  heart,  just  as  the  heart  of  the 
mother-bird  is  drawn  down  into  the  nest  full 
of  new  life. 

"I  have  attained  to  the  beginning  of  eternal 
peace,"  he  whispered.  Earth  had  passed  quite 
away,  he  had  forgotten  its  shames  and  suffer 
ings,  everything  but  its  love.  After  a  few 
minutes  Robert  Pennington  left  father  and  son 
alone  for  their  last  communion.  Angels  heard 
its  words  of  contrition  and  forgiveness  and 


A    SACRIFICE  ACCEPTED.  335 

affection  with  bowed  heads.  Death,  not  un- 
pitying  as  mortals  think,  waited  until  the 
solemn,  tender  adieu  had  been  said.  The 
room  was  full  of  a  great  peace,  a  peace  that 
could  be  felt.  At  the  last  moment  he  regained 
a  flash  of  strength.  He  smiled  bravely  as  he 
looked  farewell  into  the  loving  eyes  watching 
him.  "  I  fear  no  longer,"  he  said  cheerfully. 
"  One  has  taken  my  hand,  I  am  safe." 

And  so  the  red-leaved  book  of  this  sinning, 
sorrowing,  loving  human  heart  was  closed  and 
sealed  forever.  They  took  out  of  his  clasped 
hand  a  bit  of  paper  on  which  something  was 
written.  Uncle  and  nephew  read  it  together 
with  holy  reverence,  and  then  George  put  it 
next  his  heart.  It  was  eight  lines  from  that 
glorious  hymn  of  Stephen  the  Sabaite  written 
more  than  seventeen  hundred  years  ago : 

If  I  ask  him  to  receive  me, 

Will  he  say  me  nay  ? 
"  Not  till  earth,  and  not  till  heaven 
Pass  away." 

Finding,  following,  keeping,  struggling, 

Is  He  sure  to  bless  ? 
"  Saints,  apostles,  prophets,  martyrs, 
Answer,  Yes." 


336  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

One  promise  had  been  made  to  the  dead 
man,  that  he  should  not  be  buried  in  the  des 
olate  grave-yard  attached  to  the  prison.  They 
took  him  back  to  Pennington,  to  the  home  of 
his  youth.  In  that  lonely  Cumberland  village, 
men  and  women  had  old-world  attachments 
and  with  them  affectionate  reticences.  When 
the  Squire  came  home  with  the  coffin,  and  a 
grave  was  opened  in  the  Pennington  burial- 
ground,  there  were  many  living  who  knew 
whose  mournful  life  was  ended.  They  glanced 
at  each  other  with  intelligent  pity,  but  no  one 
told  the  new  generation  the  tragedy  of  the 
Squire's  brother.  The  clergyman  who  had 
baptized,  buried  him  ;  and  many  an  old  man 
and  woman  with  silent  kindness  dropped  a 
sprig  of  box  or  rosemary  into  his  grave.  It 
was  snowing  heavily  when  they  laid  him  there, 
and  within  an  hour  the  new-made  bed  was 
covered  with  a  white  mantle  of  stainless  purity. 

A  month  after  this  George  Pennington,  was 
on  his  way  to  the  Crimea.  He  hoped  in  that 
campaign  of  suffering  and  danger  to  find  op 
portunities  for  doing  something  great  in  atone 
ment  for  his  past  life.  For  to  be  its  own  sal 
vation,  that  is  ever  the  first  dream  of  a  soul 


A  SACRIFICE  ACCEPTED.  33? 

repentant  and  aspiring.  He  went  a  little  from 
the  direct  road  in  order  to  bid  his  sister  good 
bye.  For  though  he  generally  disagreed  with 
her  upon  all  points,  the  family  tie  drew  them 
close  together  in  eventful  hours. 

He  found  Harriet  in  her  nursery.  She  had 
just  returned  from  a  morning  drive.  The  feel 
ing  of  the  fresh  air  was  around  her,  and  she 
had  in  a  marked  degree  the  appearance  of  a 
woman  accustomed  to  the  fields  and  woods. 
Her  bonnet  was  on  her  head,  her  cloak  over 
her  arm,  her  two  eldest  boys  clinging  to  her 
dress,  her  baby  stretching  out  its  arms  for  her 
embrace.  She  made  a  charming  picture,  and 
George  was  sensitive  of  it.  He  kissed  her 
with  an  affection  which  made  her  face  bright 
with  smiles,  and  when  she  saw  the  traces  of 
his  suffering,  she  clasped  his  hand  in  her  own, 
and  led  him  with  loving  words  into  her  sitting- 
room.  She  had  wonderful  things  to  tell  him 
about  the  children,  and  she  did  not  notice  for 
some  time  that  George  was  distrait  and  rest 
less  under  this  infliction.  Then  it  struck  her 
that  he  might  be  hungry,  and  she  rang  the 
bell  and  ordered  an  earlier  lunch. 

"You  know  I  will  not  eat  in  Colonel  Sut- 


33&  FEET  OF  CLAV. 

cliffe's  house,  Harriet.  I  came  only. to  bid 
farewell.  I  am  going  to  the  Crimea." 

"  George,  how  can  you  be  so  dreadful, 
keeping  up  ill-will  about  a  creature  like  that 
Kellish  ?  " 

"  That  creature,  as  you  call  him,  is  dead. 
Tell  your  husband  so.  Colonel  Sutcliffe  has 
had  his  pound  of  flesh,  has  had  justice. 
When  he  goes  to  church  let  him  remember  it. 
Let  him  pray,  '  Forgive  me  my  trespasses,  as  I 
forgive  them  who  trespass  against  me.'  If 
God  is  as  just  with  him  as  Sutcliffe  was  with 
the  dead,  he  will  get  what  he  gave,  the  outer 
darkness  for  the  hell  of  Dartmoor." 

"  Dear  me,  what  does  it  all  mean  ?  You 
fret  yourself  into  a  fever  about  this  man,  and 
while  Harry  was  worrying  over  an  unpleasant 
dream  he  had  of  mother  and  the  same  dread 
ful  person,  down  from  London  comes  Lord 
Penrith." 

''What!" 

"Lord  Penrith,  I  assure  you,  and  what  he 
thought,  or  what  object  he  could  have,  good 
ness  only  knows  !  But  he  begged  Harry  not 
to  prosecute.  He  said  he  did  not  believe  Kel 
lish  was  guilty,  and  when  Harry  replied,  '  The 


A    SACRIFICE  ACCEPTED.  339 

man  has  confessed,'  he  reiterated,  '  I  don't  be 
lieve  he  is  guilty.'  Finally  he  told  Harry  a 
very  strange  thing  about  the  late  Lord.  I 
suppose  I  ought  not  to  mention  it." 

"  You  can  safely  tell  me." 

"  He  said  his  father's  life  had  been  darkened 
and  shortened  by  prosecuting  a  man  for  a  sim 
ilar  act.  On  his  deathbed  he  made  this  con 
fession,  and  he  begged  his  son,  for  his  sake,  to 
be  very  merciful  to  men  conquered  by  a  sud 
den  temptation.  It  seems  the  old  Lord  sent 
his  dearest  friend  to  prison,  and  never  could 
undo  the  step  he  took  in  the  first  hours  of  his 
anger.  Of  course,  Harry  was  not  to  be  dic 
tated  to  in  a  matter  of  right  and  wrong,  but 
he  pleaded  for  a  light  punishment,  and  the 
man  was  very  mercifully  treated." 

"  Very  !  He  is  dead  ;  dead  from  toil  and  ex 
posure  that  he  was  unable  to  bear.  I  hope 
Sutcliffe  will  remember  the  victim  of  his  jus 
tice,  when  he  lies  down  upon  his  own  death 
bed." 

"  You  are  very  cruel  to  say  such  a  dreadful 
thing.  And  what  better  are  you  than  Harry  ? 
If  you  think  Harry  ought  to  have  passed  by 
the  fault  of  this  strange  man,  why  should 


346  PER?  6 if 

you  not  pass  by  the  fault  of  your  sister's 
husband?" 

"  You  are  right,  Harriet.  I  am  not  Sut- 
cliffe's  judge.  Well,  then,  ring  for  lunch,  and 
I  will  eat  it  with  you.  Many  a  month  may 
pass  before  we  may  meet  again." 

"  Now  you  are  like  yourself,  George,  and  I 
have  something  to  tell  you,  something  you 
will  be  delighted  with,  we  are  going  to  call 
baby  after  you." 

"  My  dear  Harriet,  I  would  not  advise  you 
to  risk  baby's  future  upon  my  name.  Call 
him  Robert  Pennington,  then  you  call  him 
after  a  nobleman.  Besides,  you  must  think 
for  baby's  interests,  and  Robert  Pennington 
has  a  large  estate  to  leave  as  it  pleases 
him." 

"You  are  his  acknowledged  heir." 

"  I  am  going  to  the  war.  I  may  never  come 
back  again." 

"  I  will  not  listen  to  such  a  supposition.  Of 
course  Robert  is  a  beautiful  name,  and  indeed 
a  family  name  of  the  Sutcliffes,  but — oh,  did  I 
tell  you  that  I  had  had  a  letter  from  the 
Island?  Guess  from  whom,  and  lunch  is 
ready,  I  see.  Come,  I  will  send  the  servants 


AtCEPlTEi).  34  f 

away,  and  we  will  have  the  hour  quite  to  our 
selves." 

Harriet  was  a  notable  mistress.  Her  table 
was  perfection,  her  servants  trained  to  the  ut 
most  efficiency  and  propriety.  And  George 
watched  her  giving  orders  and  directions 
with  admiration.  For  she  was  a  woman  well 
moulded  to  the  ordinary  condition  of  things ; 
fitly  fleshed,  mentally  inclined  to  take  kindly 
to  the  law  of  gravitation.  The  every-day  hum 
of  humanity  filled  her  ear  with  content;  she 
heard  not,  she  never  tried  to  hear,  in  all  life's 
varying  noises,  joyful  and  sorrowful,  the  mean 
ing  that  runs  through  them,  the  measured 
music,  the  central  tune. 

She  chatted  with  a  pleasant,  confidential  air, 
affectionately  curious  about  her  brother's  plans, 
affectionately  indifferent  about  a  past  which 
she  instantly  perceived  he  was  not  disposed  to 
discuss.  When  they  were  half  through  lunch 
she  again  remembered  the  letter  from  the 
Island,  and  exclaimed  a  little  at  George's 
apathy  concerning  it. 

"  Only  fancy !  A  letter  from  Bella  Clucas, 
and  you  have  not  a  question  to  ask." 

"  Is  it  from  Bella :  I  hope  it  pleased  you." 


34*  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

"  Indeed  it  did  not.  I  considered  it  a  very 
ungrateful  and  ungracious  answer  to  the  one  I 
sent  her." 

"  Then  you  wrote  first  ?  I  was  wondering 
if  Bella  did." 

"  I  wrote  because  I  really  thought  I  could 
do  Bella,  and  of  course  myself  also,  a  great 
kindness.  Mrs.  Layland,  who  had  been  house 
keeper  here  for  forty  years,  died  last  spring, 
and  I  had  a  frightful  experience  with  half  a 
dozen  women  who  tried  to  take  her  place.  At 
last  I  thought  of  Bella.  I  offered  her  the 
entire  charge  of  the  house  and  servants,  with 
a  very  handsome  salary  and  her  own  sitting- 
room  and  bedroom  ;  and  she  refused  !  " 

"  I  should  have  been  much  astonished  if  she 
had  accepted." 

"  She  is  unmarried  yet,  evidently  still  think 
ing  of  you.  In  such  case  I  naturally  imagined 
that  she  would  be  thankful  to  be  where  there 
was  at  least  a  prospect  of  seeing  you  occa 
sionally." 

"  I  declare,  Harriet,  your  conscience  has  as 
many  jerks  and  turnings  as  a  swallow  on  the 
wing.  Now  I  suppose  it  did  not  strike  you, 
that  you  might  be  purchasing  your  own  com. 


A    SACRIFICE  ACCEPTED.  343 

fort  at  the  price  of  suffering  or  temptation  to 
Bella,  perhaps  to  me  also." 

"  I  knew  that  you  had  recovered  your  senses 
on  that  subject.  Bella  is  quite  able  to  take 
care  of  herself,  but  I  will  get  her  letter  and 
read  it  to  you." 

"'  Mrs.  Sutcliffe,' that  is  how  it  begins.  She 
might  have  said,  My  Lady  or  My  Honored 
Friend,  or  something  of  that  kind.  She  knew 
very  well  I  was  Lady  of  Sutcliffe  Manor.  I 
explained  the  dignity  fully  to  her  when  I  was 
engaged  to  Harry.  '  Mrs.  Sutcliffe.  Your 
letter  was  very  bewildering  to  me,  and  it  is 
much  if  I  can  say  the  right  words  in  answer  to 
it.  Service,  surely,  every  one  must  do  service, 
and  with  heart  and  hands  I'm  doing  it.  Love 
though,  love  and  not  gold,  the  for.  At  first 
I  was  asking  what  did  you  mean,  and  hardly 
knowing  for  all.  But  Gale  was  reading  your 
letter  and  he  out  with  it  plain  enough,  "  It's 
her  servant  she's  wanting  you  to  be,"  and  me 
saying  "  ridiculous,"  but  him  getting  angry  for 
all.  Fishers,  of  course,  and  not  counting  our 
selves  quality,  but  very,  comfortable  and  able 
to  pay  the  last  farthing  due,  and  quite  content 
with  God's  measure  for  all.  Of  course  there's 


344  P££r  OP 

a  power  to  do  in  a  house  like  yonder  at  Sut- 
cliffe,  but  there's  gold  in  your  hand  and  plenty 
of  service  to  buy,  and  so  there  you  are ;  and 
no  offence  meant,  and  thanking  you  kindly  for 
the  good  intent,  and  all  to  that.  And  no 
hindrance  from  any,  only  Gale,  but  father  and 
mother  giving  me  a  list  to  do  my  will,  and  my 
will  always  to  the  good  home  I  have.  God 
bless  it ! '  What  do  you  think  of  that  for 
Bella  Clucas?" 

"  I  think  very  highly  of  it ;  you  have  only 
yourself  to  blame  if  you  feel  hurt.  After 
making  her  your  friend,  you  had  no  right  to 
offer  her  wages.  Is  that  all  she  says?  " 

"  It  is  all  that  concerns  me  specially  ;  the 
rest  refers  to  the  Dinwoodies  mainly.  Do  you 
care  to  hear  it  ? "  A  slight  movement  of 
the  head  answered  the  question,  and  she  pro 
ceeded  : 

"  '  'Tis  a  quiet  life  in  the  Island,  but  some 
changes  and  you  perhaps  not  hearing  of  them. 
Miss  Francis  Caine  married  to  an  English  lord, 
and  Miss  Jeffcott  to  a  lawyer  from  Ramsey, 
and  the  Miss  Hamiltons  to  officers,  and  the 
officers  going  to  the  war,  and  trouble  enough 
that  way.  And  Miss  Dinwoodie  has  had  a 


A    SACRIFICE  ACCEPTED.  345 

heart  full  of  sorrow.  Oh,  dear!  Heart  full 
and  hands  full,  but  naturally  sweet  and  kind, 
and  God  good  to  such.  Two  years  her  moth 
er  was  in  the  bed  dying,  mortals  hardly  know 
ing  the  suffering  she  had,  and  Miss  Kitty  by 
her  side  whether  or  not,  night  and  day,  and 
after  all  the  last  word  and  kiss,  and  hard  to 
bear  is  them !  But  still  harder  at  hand,  for 
the  Major  was  broken-hearted,  though  shed 
ding  no  tear  and  speaking  to  no  one  till  the 
evening  of  the  second  day,  and  me  with  her, 
and  doing  the  best  I  could,  but  for  all  that, 
her  going  sobbing  and  shivering  through  the 
house,  for  her  mother  was  wrapped  in  her  very 
heart ;  and  as  for  the  Major,  as  I  was  saying, 
wasn't  the  dead  woman  the  joy  of  every  breath 
he  took?  And  so  on  the  second  evening  she 
called  him.  He  was  sitting  in  his  big  chair 
with  his  head  in  his  hands,  and  the  sweet  Sun 
day  sunset  sifting  through  the  dropped  blinds, 
and  all  of  a  sudden  he  rises  straight  up  like 
one  listening,  and  answers  out  clear,  "  I  am 
coming,  Nora  !"  Just  one  smile  at  Miss  Kitty 
as  she  caught  him  in  her  arms,  and  gone  he 
was,  for  all  that  love  and  doctor  could  do.  So 
then  the  grave  was  made  wider,  and  they 


34^  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

buried  them  side  by  side,  and  all  Castletown, 
rich  and  poor,  at  the  funeral ;  and  the  parson 
wanting  Miss  Kitty  to  stay  with  him,  and 
talking  and  reasoning  a  deal  about  it,  but 
Miss  Kitty  not  regarding,  and  going  back  to 
her  own  house.  Well,  then,  the  servants  are 
old,  and  very  kind  to  her  and  all  to  that,  but 
lonely  no  doubt,  and  every  one  sorry  enough 
for  her.' " 

"Dear  little  Kitty!  I  remember  well  how 
the  Major  idolized  his  wife,  a  fisher-girl,  you 
know,  Harriet,  out  of  the  cottages  of  Craig-y- 
neesh,  a  most  lovely  woman,  and  good  as 
lovely.  Kitty  was  never  ashamed  of  her 
origin." 

"  Kitty  expressed  herself  in  the  most  un- 
lady-like  and  uncalled  for  manner  on  the  sub 
ject.  It  was  false  pride  in  her,  and  I  and  oth 
ers  were  made  very  uncomfortable  more  than 
once  about  it.  Kitty  is  sentimental,  that  is 
such  a  weak  point  in  a  woman's  character." 

"  Have  you  finished  the  letter?" 

"  Nearly.  Bella  is  kind  enough  to  '  often 
look  at  the  house  where  we  used  to  live ' ;  she 
writes,  'it  is  still  unlet.  And  oh  then,  people 
are  saying  it  is  haunted  by  a  dark  man  with 


A   SACRIFICE  ACCEPTED.  347 

eyes  that  burn  like  fire.  Such  foolishness ! 
I  was  twice  seeing  Mr.  Kellish  in  the  garden, 
walking  about  and  thinking  to  himself  like, 
and  the  ghost  would  be  him,  never  fear,  and 
nothing  but  good  if  so.'  That  is  all,  and  I  am 
glad  she  did  not  take  my  offer.  Such  a 
woman  would  have  made  the  house  very  un 
comfortable." 

"  Harriet,  I  wish  you  would  write  to  Kitty." 

"  I  couldn't,  really,  George.  Three  years 
ago,  when  we  had  that  large  winter  party  and 
you  spent  a  week  with  us,  I  invited  Miss  Din- 
woodie.  She  had  a  list  of  the  expected  guests 
and  knew  you  were  to  be  present.  I  received 
in  answer  a  cool  civil  regret  without  a  single 
excuse  for  it." 

"  Perhaps  she  had  no  excuse." 

"  Then  she  ought  to  have  made  one  as  a 
matter  of  politeness.  People  always  do." 

"  Well,  my  dear  sister,  I  must  leave  you 
now.  Bring  the  boys  and  let  me  kiss  them." 
He  laughed  at  Harriet's  anxiety  for  him,  and 
amid  the  children's  chatter  and  the  mother's 
smiles  and  tears  went  away  with  apparent 
cheerfulness.  He  had  no  inclination  to  darken 
his  sister's  life  with  either  his  knowledge  or 


348  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

his  experiences.  She  did  not  perceive  his 
mental  anguish,  she  could  have  given  him  no 
help  if  she  had.  Suffering  such  as  he  was  en 
during  does  not  rise  to  the  surface,  it  makes 
itself  a  channel  to  the  very  depths  of  being. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

SUNRISE. 

"  Then  my  heart  fainted  utterly, 
And  all  things  seemed  to  darken,  and  1  crept 
A  little  from  the  gate  and  stumbled  where 
The  graves  are  thickest.     There  the  people  lie 
And  weep  no  more  —  the  stately  trees  that  keep 
Their  dark  watch  in  the  place  of  graves,  are  used 
To  shelter  calmer  faces,  stiller  hearts  than  mine. 
In  their  deep  shadows  I  fell  down 
And  tried  to  call  on  God,  but  in  that  hour 
Of  agony  the  clouds  were  dark  between 
My  soul  and  Him." 

"  Stir  the  deep  wells  of  life  that  flow  within  you 

Touched  by  God's  genial  hand, 
And  let  the  chastened,  sure  ambition  win  you 
To  serve  His  high  command." 

THE  poorest  life  a  man  can  live  is  serious 
enough   when   seen  against  eternity,  but 
George  Pennington's  life  had  been  one  full  of 
incident  and  experience.     All  the  more  terrible 
was   the    remorse    which  now   continually  re 
minded  him  of  the  great  love  slain,  of  the  vast 
opportunities  abused  or  neglected.     Since  that 
349 


35°  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

hour  in  which  the  father  had  assumed  the  shame 
and  suffering  of  his  crime,  George  Pennington 
had  never  felt  young.  He  walked  upon  the 
shadow  of  his  past.  The  future  was  emptied 
of  hope.  The  ordinary  motives  which  move 
men  to  great  deeds  and  renunciations  had  lost 
their  power  over  him. 

He  found  himself  at  Balaklava  among  many 
of  the  same  men  he  had  been  accustomed  to 
meet  in  the  London  clubs  and  drawing-rooms. 
They  were  enduring  every  extremity  of  phys 
ical  discomfort  and  suffering  with  a  gay  bravery 
which  was  amazing.  Love  of  country,  hope  of 
advancement,  natural  courage,  youthful  exu 
berance  showing  itself  in  a  craving  for  adven 
ture,  even  family  pride,  all  proved  to  be  ele 
vating  motives  to  the  men  whom  he  had  only 
known  as  foolish,  thoughtless  followers  of  what 
they  called  pleasure.  One  morning  he  met  the 
Honorable  Sydney  Balfour,  a  handsome  youth 
who  had  been  the  darling  of  the  last  season. 
George  remembered  him  as  an  effeminate 
dandy,  lightly  laughing  at  all  noble  emotions, 
without  reverence  for  women,  whom  he  called 
the  fair,  and  to  whom  he  uttered  nothing 
but  compliments.  The  young  fellow  was  now 


SUNRISE.  35 1 

in  a  constant  and  healthy  enthusiasm.  Even 
the  altogether  human  sentiment  of  family 
honor,  identified  with  love  of  country,  had 
lifted  him  far  above  that  well-dressed  world 
which  he  had  known  best  by  candle-light. 

"  Oh,  you  know,  Pennington,"  he  said,  with 
his  honest,  beardless  face  aglow,  "  a  man  with 
ancestors  has  to  do  the  right  thing.  Balfour  is 
a  great  name  and  recalls  a  thousand  great 
memories.  Of  course  the  present  earl  isn't 
much,  perhaps  he  had  never  a  chance  to  do 
anything  but  get  prizes  for  shorthorns,  but 
when  I  see  my  stout  uncle  standing  in  the  door 
of  Balfour  Castle,  I  see  Agincourt  in  the  back 
ground,  and  hear  a  pomp  of  fancied  trumpets 
on  the  wind." 

"  I  understand,  then,  that  your  ancestors 
guarantee  your  good  conduct.  But,  Sydney, 
I  know  great  families  who  lose  themselves  as 
a  river  does  in  a  morass  ;  or  perhaps  the  stream 
stagnates  through  bare,  level  sands  to  the  sea. 
Nobility  should  be  virtue  of  race,  but  it  is  sel 
dom  this  result  is  obtained." 

"  Nonsense  !  Good  men  come  from  good 
men.  No  great  deeds  are  done  by  knaves,  or 
traders  hungry  for  wealth.  Men  of  noble  tra- 


35 2  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

editions  and  brave  instincts  make  history  and 
build  up  nations.  I  believe  in  the  transmission 
of  family  excellence.  My  old  uncle  often  says: 
'  Where  you  have  gathered  strawberries  once 
you  will  be  very  likely  to  gather  them  again.' 
He  never  minded  what  mother  called  my 
frivolity  ;  he  used  to  say :  '  It  is  the  froth  on 
the  flagon ;  when  it  has  settled  the  liquor  un 
derneath  will  be  none  the  worse,  I  warrant.'  " 

"  Still,  we  are  in  a  new  era,  Sydney.  Men 
of  genius  are  slowly  altering  the  very  instincts 
of  the  English  people.  The  steam  engine — " 

"  Excuse  me,  George.  National  honor  is 
older  than  the  steam  engine." 

"  Still,  I  say  we  cannot  judge  the  present  by 
the  past." 

"  The  present  is  moored  upon  the  past.  A 
great  deal  of  everything  we  are  proudest  of  is 
drawn  from  our  ancestors.  There  is  an  alarm, 
George !  " 

"  Some  sentinel  who  has  heard  a  leaf  fall 
and  thinks  it  is  a  Russian." 

"  But  there  are  the  picket  volleys,  and  now 
the  bugles  on  the  streets!  " 

He  leaped  to  his  feet,  his  spurs  jingled,  his 
steel  scabbard  clanked  in  unison,  he  waved  his 


SUNKISE.  353 

hand  enthusiastically  as  he  passed  through  the 
low  door  of  the  Greek  fisherman's  hut  in 
which  this  conversation  had  taken  place. 

George  went  more  quietly  into. the  narrow 
street.  It  was  crowded  with  artillery  and 
commissariat  wagons,  with  hosts  of  soldiers 
and  officers  on  horseback,  and  a  large  body  of 
sailors  armed  with  cutlasses  were  dragging  their 
heavy  ship-guns  up  to  camp,  cheering  with  all 
their  might  as  they  went. 

Among  the  blue-shirted  braves  one  man  was 
pre-eminent.  His  great  size,  the  enormous 
gun  at  which  he  was  tugging,  the  volume  of 
cheerful  vociferation  with  which  he  led  the  way, 
attracted  George.  He  went  closer  to  him,  and 
found  that  his  instant  suspicion  had  been  a 
true  one.  It  was  Gale  Clucas.  In  such  mo 
ments  of  common  enthusiasm  some  men  forget 
their  private  feelings.  George  did.  He  called 
the  young  fisher  by  his  name,  and  lifted  his 
plumed  helmet  to  him. 

"  Hello,  Captain  !  "  was  the  ready  response 
and  the  two  words  brought  a  mist  into  the 
Captain's  eyes.  Oh,  if  he  could  only  call 
back  all  the  rich  blessings  of  the  past,  as 
easily  as  he  had  won  again  those  two  words 


354  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

of  ready  comradeship  from  the  offended 
Gale! 

In  the  constant  alarms  and  skirmishes  that 
occurred  at  Palaklava,  the  apple  of  discord 
between  the  two  armies,  George  Pennington 
took  his  full  share.  He  slept  coated  and 
booted  and  spurred,  and  always  ready  for  battle 
at  the  second  bugle  call.  He  knew  in  their 
extremity  the  deprivations  and  sufferings 
which  the  noble  as  well  as  the  peasant  had 
to  endure.  But  he  found  no  peace  in  this 
hard  discipline.  All  the  red  graves  in  those 
narrow  gorges  could  not  hide  from  his  spir 
itual  sight  that  long,  white  mound  in  Penning 
ton  churchyard. 

He  called  himself  continually  by  one  awful 
word,  and  it  seemed  as  if  expiation  was  forbid 
den  him.  In  the  front  of  every  danger,  in  the 
thick  of  every  fight,  he  had  sought  to  lay  down 
his  own  life,  in  atonement  for  the  life  that 
went  out  in  the  grim  horror  of  Dartmoor. 
The  sacrifice  had  been  refused.  Once  his  soul 
had  been  possessed  by  many  passions,  wearied 
with  many  sadnesses,  troubled  with  many  fears, 
but  now  it  only  felt  the  hopelessness  of  both 
life  and  death.  A  face  marred  with  sorrow  but 


SUNRISE.  355 

always  light  with  love  was  ever  before  him. 
He  could  not  forget  for  a  moment  its  long 
look  of  disappointment ;  the  sad  lips  that  had 
asked  so  little  from  him. 

If  that  wronged  one  could  return  !  With 
what  kisses  would  he  cover  his  hands  !  He 
would  fall  at  his  feet,  he  would  never  more 
disobey  his  lightest  wish.  Secret  forgotten 
unkindnesses  came  to  his  remembrance  con 
tinually.  Oh  for  an  hour,  one  hour  only  with 
that  dear  dead  friend  !  He  would  have  bought 
it  gladly  with  his  life.  Too  late !  Never 
would  he  find  again  on  earth  the  one  whom 
he  had  made  suffer ;  never  be  able  to  tell  him, 
that  in  spite  of  all,  he  loved  him.  Ah,  it  is 
the  irreparable  that  tortures!  When  the  soul 
is  forced  to  contemplate  what  no  longer 
exists,  it  has  these  refinements  of  agonizing 
tenderness. 

In  the  gloom  of  a  life  so  full  of  despair  one 
great  pleasure  came  to  him.  He  found  Gale 
Clucas  in  the  naval  hospital  at  Therapia, 
dying  in  the  dreadful  despondency  of  Varna 
fever,  and  he  took  him  into  his  own  tent. 
The  young  giant  was  weak  as  the  new-born 
babe  ;  he  had  succumbed  to  the  desperate 


35  6  FEET  OF  cLA  Y. 

apathy  of  the  disease.  At  first  Gale  was  quite 
indifferent  to  the  unwearying  love  which  was 
working  night  and  day  for  his  recovery,  but  as 
the  fever  was  gradually  conquered,  George 
began  to  reap  the  reward  of  his  kindness. 

"  I'm  knowin'  you,  Captain,"  said  Gale  one 
night.  It  was  bitterly  cold,  and  George  sat 
beside  him  motionless,  rolled  up  in  his  saddle- 
skins.  "  I'm  knowin'  you,  Captain,  and  the 
kind  you  have  been,  aw'  deed,  very  kind  !  I 
wonder  you  did  it." 

"  I  was  glad  to  do  it,  Gale.  I  was  saving 
life,  that  is  a  great  thing,  and  when  I  saw  you 
at  Therapia,  I  could  think  of  nothing  but 
the  little  boat  tossing  on  the  sea,  and  you  and 
me,  two  boys  just,  throwing  our  lines  from  it. 
All  that  has  passed  since  I  hope  you  will 
forgive." 

"Aw  then,  axin'  pardon  myself.  I  was 
hatin'  you  bad  enough,  and  the  murder  in  my 
heart,  and  willin'  to  put  you  on  the  black 
teeth  of  Scarlett  rocks  yon  night,  if  father  had 
been  in  my  mind  ;  but  the  cry  of  you  was  in 
his  ear  and  he  bound  to  lizzen.  Aw  dear  ! 
the  wicked  it  seems  now,  and  the  foolish.  I 
was  hard  to  please  them  times,  and  very  easy 


357 

to  anger :  but  Bella,  aw  yes,  Bella,  you  was 
wrong  there,  Captain." 

"  Very  wrong,  Gale.  I  am  sorry  «for  it. 
You'll  forget  that." 

"  Sartinly.  Bella  wasn'  ever  in  danger, 
nothin'  in  her  for  any  man  to  make  bould  of  ; 
not  her  way.  I  hadn'  no  call  to  be  so  surly, 
for  Bella  was  allis  clear  as  the  sun  ;  the  truth 
was  in  the  craythur,  and  the  sense  too." 

"  And  Lace  ?  Lace  Corrin,  you  remember 
Lace  ?  " 

"  Very  likely.  Lace  is  in  the  brigade  with 
me,  but  in  the  ship,  and  so  not  in  the  way  of 
the  fever,  thank  God  !  A  fine  fellow  and  all 
to  that." 

George  hesitated  a  moment,  then  asked, 
"  Are  they  married  yet  ?  I  mean  Lace  and 
Bella." 

"The  for?  The  young  man  plannin'  no 
doubt,  and  prittin'  and  prattin'  to  Bella  about 
it,  and  the  how,  and  the  what  of  it,  but  Bella 
very  considerate." 

"  He  has  been  a  long  time  in  love  with 
Bella !  " 

"Lace?  Aw  then,  love  keeps,  and  grows 
better  for  the  keepin'.  In  the  Bible  one  man, 


35 8  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

better  man  than  Gale  mayve,  waitin'  fourteen 
years,  and  very  fond  at  the  end  of  them.  I'm 
thinkin'  a  deal  of  Bella,  and  not  wantin'  any 
man  to  be  takin'  my  sister,  botherin'  no  man's 
sister  myself." 

"  Hard  on  Lace." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Lace  quite  content  for 
all,  and  takin'  his  live  or  die  from  Bella's  smile 
or  will,  worshippin'  her,  just  iddiklus  !  The 
girl  isn'  his  kith  nor  kin,  and  wishin'  for  things 
is  easy,  but  a  long  sea  between  wishin'  and 
havin'.  Aw  yes,  bless  God  !  " 

"  Doesn't  Lace  complain  ?  " 

"Complain  is  it?  Very  tormentin'  some 
times ;  takes  no  rest  on  the  subjec' ;  at  it, 
and  at  it,  and  must  know  ;  aw  then,  he  settles 
quick  enough  when  Bella's  spakin'  to  him  ; 
very  demandin'  is  Lace  sometimes ;  what's 
the  use  ?  " 

"  But  she  will  marry  Lace  some  day  ?  " 

"  Some  day,  some  way,  who  knows  when  ? 
Changes  every  year.  '  Wait '  says  I  to  him, 
'  waitin's  good,  hurry's  bad.'  ' 

"  So  then  Bella  is  at  the  cottage  yet  ?  " 

"Where  else?  And  the  light  of  it,  and  my 
mother's  right  hand,  and  goin'  through  my 


SUNKISE.  359 

father's  heart  like  the  tide  of  life.  Mother 
and  father,  and  myself,  who  more  right  to 
Bella  ?  Mother's  not  strong,  and  a  deal  of 
knittin'  to  do  for  the  childer  and  the  men,  and 
doin'  it,  and  father  not  carin'  to  go  to  church 
or  to  market,  nor  the  boat  itself  without  Bella, 
leanin'  on  her  like,  and  mixin'  his  life  so  up 
with  hers  that  partin'  couldn'  be ;  partin'  and 
livin'  I  mean,  partin'  would  be  dyin'  for  the 
sweet  ould  man." 

"Was  Bella  willing  for  you  to  come  here?" 

"  Willin'  is  it  ?  Sendin'  us  both  in  her  com- 
pellin'  way  with  the  smile  and  the  brave  word, 
'  What  are  you  fishin'  for,  boys,  and  fightin' 
to  do  ?  '  and  the  like  of  them  ;  or,  '  Aw  then,  if 
I  was  a  man  I'd  be  where  they  were  shootin' 
the  guns  instead  of  the  nets ! '  and  the  light  in 
her  blue  eyes,  and  the  pride  and  spirit  of  the 
craythur!  Wonderful!  'Lace,'  says  I,  'we 
have  got  to  go  ';  'yes,'  says  he,  'or  she  will  be 
puttin'  us  under  her  feet.'  " 

"  So  you  came  here  to  please  Bella,  and 
not  for  the  glory  of  the  fight  ?  " 

"  Aw  then,  the  glory  Bella  was  takin'  in  the 
fight  was  the  glory  for  us.  To  see  her  readin' 
the  papers  to  father,  and  the  blaze  on  her 


30  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

cheeks  and  the  light  in  her  eyes,  and  the  bless- 
in'  she  was  givin*  the  women,  and  yet  envy- 
in'  them  that  were  goin'  to  nurse  the  sick  and 
the  wounded,  but  held  at  home  for  all  by  the 
two  lookin'  to  her.  Bella  is  a  fine  gel,  none 
like  her." 

"And  still  handsome?" 

"  Handsome  is  it  you're  axin'?  Handsome! 
By  St.  Christopher,  she's  far  beyond  it.  If  I 
could  draw  a  pictur1  of  her  as  I  saw  her  last, 
'twould  make  your  heart  stand  still,  'deed  it 
would  ;  wonderful  handsome  !  Lace  and  I  was 
sayin'  the  last  words,  and  mother,  God  bless 
her,  sat  down  in  her  chair  when  she  let  my 
hands  out  of  hers.  She  was  puttin'  the  Bible 
then  in  their  place,  knowin'  the  sweet  words 
in  it  well  for  all,  but  like  the  childer  wantin' 
to  feel  them  in  her  hands,  and  father  and  Bella 
followin*  us  to  the  door,  and  standin'  there 
with  the  long  look  in  their  eyes.  '  Turn 
round,'  says  Lace  when  we  got  to  the  gate. 
'Twas  worth  it,  'deed  it  was !  Father  had  one 
hand  on  Bella's  shoulder,  and  with  the  other 
he  waves  a  blue  'kerchief  and  says  he, '  Hooray, 
boys,  and  see  you  drive  the  Rooshians  back  to 
the  north  pole  ;  good  enough  for  them,  and 


SUNKJSE.  361 

if  you're  doin'  nothin'  else,  be  showin'  them 
Frenchers  how  to  fight,  and  don't  be  trustin' 
in  them ;  for  all  their  palaver,  French  still, 
French  still,'  shouts  he ;  and  Bella  standin' 
there  beside  him,  with  the  sea  wind  blowin* 
her  hair  and  her  blue  gown,  and  the  sun  shinin' 
all  over  her,  and  the  fuchsia  vines  dropping 
round  like  a  frame  to  the  pictur',  and  then 
we  liftin'  our  caps  and  hearin'  soft-like  on  the 
salt  wind,  '  Good-bye,  dears !  and  be  doin'  your 
duty,  allis  ! '  That's  Bella,  God  bless  her !  " 

And  the  eyes  of  both  men  were  dim,  and 
they  spoke  no  more  that  night,  but  as  Gale 
afterwards  told  Lace,  "a  warm  feelin'  between 
us,  and  peace  and  forgiveness  full,  and  no 
countin'  backwards  for  anything;  forgettin' 
no  kindness,  and  forgettin'  all  else,  thank 
God ! " 

So  much  of  comfort  George  got  from  his 
labor  of  love,  but  Gale  soon  went  back  to  his 
ship,  and  there  is  no  permanent  power  in 
either  nature  or  humanity  to  give  peace  to 
a  conscience  which  God  has  troubled.  One 
dark  midnight  he  was  standing  motionless 
under  arms.  A  small  body  of  men  were  with 
him,  all  on  guard,  and  intently  listening  for  an 


362  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

expected  attack.  Nothing  could  be  seen  a 
foot  away,  for  a  dense  fog  wrapped  them  in  its 
chilling,  depressing  atmosphere.  The  foe  was 
stealthy,  and  might  be  close  at  hand,  and  the 
very  silence  was  sensitive  with  the  presence 
of  death  and  disaster. 

Now  then,  it  was  at  this  hour  a  word  or  two 
was  said  to  George  Pennington,  a  word  or 
two  which  turned  despair  and  darkness  into  un 
speakable  joy  and  peace.  Some  sweet  secret 
message  of  forgiveness  and  love  which  made 
him  lift  his  white,  sad  face  to  the  unstarred 
sky,  and  catch  in  the  act  of  adoration  a  light 
of  peace  unspeakable,  a  glory  of  happiness 
such  as  the  world  knows  not  of.  He  felt  that 
the  whole  dark  past  was  forgiven,  and  he 
cast  it  behind  his  back.  He  knew  that  the 
future  was  a  new  gift  to  him,  and  he  conse 
crated  it  by  an  act  of  momentary  but  irrevo 
cable  surrender. 

These  special  and  personal  intimacies  of  the 
soul  and  its  Maker  bring  their  own  assurance 
and  interpretation.  Though  they  are  con 
stantly  occurring,  their  secret  sacredness,  their 
definite  personality  places  them  beyond  gen 
eral  definition.  No  soul  thus  favored  wants 


SU1VXZSE.  363 

to  define  them.  Sufficient  unto  the  doubt, 
the  sorrow,  the  sin,  they  come  with  a  power 
and  a  certainty  which  nothing  in  life  can  give 
or  take  away.  Those  ignorant  of  these  holy 
intimacies  may  ask  doubtful  questions  and 
smile  at  such  mysteries  of  faith.  Let  them 
first  unravel  the  mysteries  of  reason.  Children 
of  the  living  God  walk  in  mystery.  Their 
spiritual  birth  is  a  mystery,  their  spiritual  life 
is  a  mystery.  And  this  shroud  of  mystery  is 
their  glory,  it  is  the  awful ,  splendid  shadow 
which  eternity  casts  across  time. 

How  poor,  how  wretchedly  poor,  is  that  soul 
which  has  never  walked  in  those  blessed  paths 
of  spiritual  life,  remote,  obscure,  little  trodden, 
bordering  on  regions  beyond  this  world,  among 
the  secret  things  not  hidden  from  the  beloved 
of  the  Lord.  One  such  experience  as  George 
Pennington  had  while  waiting  silently  on  the 
battle-ground  makes  a  man  really  a  new  man. 
He  had  comprehended  the  measure  of  duty 
that  lay  before  him,  the  hope  in  the  future, 
the  work  to  be  done,  the  love  and  labor  which 
must  sanctify  it,  although  the  rapture  of  that 
experience  lasted  but  a  few  moments. 

Then     the    wonderful    peace    was    sharply 


364  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

broken  by  the  crack  of  rifles  and  the  shouts  of 
the  advancing  enemy.  The  first  words  George 
uttered  after  that  mysterious  conference  was 
the  order  to  charge,  was  the  rallying-shout 
as  he  led  his  men  against  their  midnight  foe. 
It  was  a  hand  to  hand  fight,  one  of  many  such 
experiences,  and  almost  in  the  beginning  of  it 
George  was  struck  down  by  his  antagonist. 
So  often  he  had  wished  for  death,  had  sought 
it  in  the  front  of  danger,  and  death  had  always 
passed  him  by.  Now  the  very  first  gift  of  the 
reconciled  Father  was  the  chastisement  of 
physical  pain.  He  was  carried  in  a  state  of 
insensibility  to  the  hospital,  and  recovered  life 
only  by  the  sharpness  of  its  suffering.  He 
was  unable  to  open  his  eyes,  but  he  knew  by  the 
modulated  voices  of  those  bending  over  him, 
by  the  atmosphere,  by  the  sharp  cries  of 
pain  around  him,  that  he  was  in  the  halls  of 
Scutari. 

He  did  not  feel  any  wonder  or  regret.  The 
very  battle-field  would  have  been  a  chamber 
of  peace.  But  as  the  day  went  by  and  his 
senses  began  to  recover  their  power,  he  was 
aware  of  the  presence  of  some  one  whose  touch 
was  inexpressibly  gentle,  whose  low  words 


365 

sounded  sweetly  familiar  in  his  ear.  That  it 
was  a  woman  was  no  wonder,  for  lovely  women 
flitted  noiselessly  about  from  pallet  to  pallet, 
carrying  hope  and  comfort,  and  making  these 
vast  halls  of  agony  almost  holy  places.  But 
George  was  certain  that  it  was  the  voice  of  a 
woman  well  known  to  him. 

On  the  third  night,  as  she  bent  over  him 
and  moistened  his  lips,  and  gently  raised  his 
wounded  head,  he  opened  wide  his  eyes  and 
looked  at  her.  Her  flowing  hair  was  coiled 
under  a  close  cap,  her  plain  dress  covered  with 
a  white  apron,  her  dimpled,  laughing  face 
grown  sad  and  weary  in  its  long  vigils  with 
suffering  and  death.  But  George  knew  her. 

"  Kitty !  "  he  whispered.  For  answer  she 
kissed  his  white  lips  and  let  the  blessed  rain  of 
pitying  love  fall  upon  his  wan  cheek.  He 
made  a  slight  movement ;  she  divined  that  he 
wanted  to  feel  her  hands  within  his  own  ;  she 
knelt  down  by  his  side  and  clasped  them.  She 
took  up  their  life  again  at  the  point  at  which  it 
had  been  dropped.  All  that  intervened  she 
buried  deeper  than  memory  could  reach.  The 
entreaty  in  that  first  long  look,  the  tenderness 
in  that  whisper  which  could  utter  only  her 


366  FEET  OF  CLAY. 

name,  she    understood    all    they    asked,   and 
granted  it  in  the  moment  of  asking. 

What  sweet,  short  confidences,  what  happy 
promises,  what  love  and  trust  and  hope 
brightened  the  hours  of  his  convalescence ! 
But  both  did  their  full  duty  until  the  fall  of 
Sebastopol  permitted  an  honorable  return  to 
private  life.  And  it  is  in  the  way  of  duty  we 
meet  the  sweetest  blessings.  Kitty  had  re 
signed  all  hoped  of  a  happy  termination  to  her 
love.  She  believed  George  Pennington  to 
have  completely  forgotten  her,  she  had  heard 
nothing  of  him  for  a  long  time.  After  the 
death  of  her  father  and  mother  she  had  no  tie 
to  the  Island,  she  had  no  work  left  sufficient  to 
employ  a  heart  so  loving  and  hands  so  busy. 
The  cry  of  distress  which  touched  so  many 
noble  women  went  straight  to  Kitty's  heart : 

"  God  made  her  so, 
And  deeds  of  week-day  holiness 
Fell  gently  from  her  as  the  snow  ; 
Nor  had  she  ever  chanced  to  know 
That  aught  was  easier  than  to  bless." 

The  atfraction  between  her  and  George  had 
been  from  the  first  a  distinct  and  powerful  one. 
Nothing  but  his  wanderings  in  ways  beyonH 


SUNRISE.  367 

her  innocent  ken  had  parted  them  ;  but  she  felt 
from  the  moment  of  their  reunion  that  some 
blessed  change  had  taken  place,  some  change 
which  left  her  free  of  fear,  and  enabled  her  to 
give  unreservedly,  doubting  nothing. 

And  if  Kitty  perceived  the  radical  elevation 
of  her  lover's  character,  Robert  Pennington 
was  perhaps  even  more  sensible  of  it.  There 
was  indeed  a  wonderful  communion  between 
the  two  men,  a  solemn  interchange  of  holy 
experiences  which  grappled  their  souls  to 
gether  for  eternity ;  but  with  these  things 
neither  tongue  nor  pen  intermeddleth. 

At  the  time  when  George  had  been  formally 
recognized  as  heir  of  Pennington  his  uncle  had 
promised  that  there  should  be  no  interference 
with  his  matrimonial  desires.  But  Kitty  Din- 
woodie  satisfied  every  wish  he  had  for  George's 
future  home.  He  had  seen  her  in  the  first 
flush  of  her  innocent,  brilliant  beauty,  he  re 
membered  her  kindness  to  George's  mother 
when  the  lonely  woman  lay  dying.  Her  devo 
tion  to  her  parents,  her  unflagging  service  to 
her  wounded  countrymen,  all  these  things 
promised  a  wife  faithful  and  affectionate. 

So  it  was  with   delight  he  anticipated  the 


FEET  OF  CLA  Y. 

marriage,  and  with  generous  pleasure  he  be 
gan  to  prepare  the  Hall  for  Kitty's  reception. 
For  he  perceived  that  marriage  would  be  for 
George  the  noblest  and  sweetest  vestibule  to 
the  career  which  he  now  saw  ready  for  him,  the 
opening  up  of  new  industries  on  the  estate,  the 
remodelling  of  the  farms  and  cottages,  the 
magisterial  duties  which  he  must  soon  assume, 
the  vision  of  parliamentary  honors  in  the  dis 
tance.  All  these  and  many  other  issues  were 
talked  over,  and  both  were  aware  that  in  the 
future  they  could  work  together  with  undivided 
aims  and  sympathies. 

The  night  before  George  was  to  leave  Penn- 
ington  in  order  to  bring  home  his  bride  the 
two  men  had  a  long  and  affectionate  confi 
dence.  All  in  the  past  which  could  sweeten 
and  solemnize  the  future  was  recalled,  its  bitter 
ness  was  buried  forever.  On  George's  face 
there  was  that  light  which  comes  from  the  in 
terior  of  a  man,  the  reflection  of  high  purpose, 
of  noble  love,  a  light  not  quite  without  the 
slant  shadow  of  regret.  Yet  by  this  very 
shadow  Robert  Pennington  foresaw  the  sun 
shine  of  the  future,  for  purposeful  regret  is 
the  seed  of  redemption. 


SUNRISE.  369 

And  as  he  looked  at  his  nephew  he  called 
to  mind  a  certain  conference  with  his  dead 
mother.  The  golden  image  with  its  feet  of 
clay  was  again  visible  to  his  mental  vision,  but 
he  regarded  it  now  without  fear.  Feet  of 
clay  still,  but  on  a  road  where  one  mighty  to 
save  walked  by  the  side  of  pilgrims  ;  a  road 
where  angels  watched,  lest  at  any  time  they 
might  dash  against  what  would  wound  or  in 
jure.  Feet  of  clay  "  shod  with  the  preparation 
of  the  gospel  of  peace."  Feet  of  clay,  "  made 
iron  and  brass  "  for  all  the  difficult  and  danger 
ous  paths  of  life. 


THE    END. 


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